BLIND  AGNESE 


CECILIA  M.  CADDELL 


r 


BLIND  AGNESE 

OR 

THE    LITTLE    SPOUSE    OF 
THE    BLESSED    SACRAMENT 


BY 

CECILIA   M.   CADDELL 


P.  J.  KENEDY  &    SONS 

44  BARCLAY  STREET,  NEW  YORK 


PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


TO  THE  SACRED  HEART  OF  JESUS 

earth  so  laden  with  the  sorrows  of  His  hu- 
manity— in  heaven,  so  overflowing  with  the 
joys  of  His  Divinity — and,  in  the  adorable  Sacrament 
of  the  Altar,  a  fountain  of  joy,  and  peace,  and  con- 
solation, of  purity,  of  love,  of  gladness,  and  of  grace, 
to  all  who  seek  Him  there,  this  little  book,  in  lowliest 
reverence,  is  offered — as  a  tribute  of  gratitude  and 
love — a  confession  of  faith — and  a  reparation  (inas- 
much as  may  be)  for  the  insults,  neglect,  ingratitude, 
and  blasphemies  heaped  upon  Him  in  this  mystery  of 
love,  both  by  those  who  believe  it  not  and  those  who 
are  cold  in  their  believing. 

Sweet  Mother  Mary !  To  thy  pure  heart  and  hands 
I  confide  this  offering,  hoping  thus  to  make  a  double 
reparation — to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Mother — so  often 
and  so  deeply  wounded  in  the  injurious  treatment  cast 
upon  the  Son.  Present  it  to  Him,  I  pray  thee,  and 
give  thy  maternal  benediction  to  me,  and  the  little  ones 
for  whom  I  write !  Engrave  indelibly  on  their  tender 
hearts  the  lesson  I  have  sought  to  trace.  Teach  them 
that  none  are  too  young  to  love  Jesus,  none  too  little 
or  too  low  to  be  loved  by  Him.  Persuade  them,  as 
none  but  thou  canst  do,  sweet  Mother,  that  He,  who 
from  out  of  the  Judean  crowd  did  deign  to  call  one 
little  as  themselves,  and  to  impart  to  that  young  child 

3 

2134843   " 


4  DEDICATION 

a  father's  benediction,  will  likewise  give  to  them  His 
blessing,  and  lift  their  hearts  to  higher  thoughts  and 
holier  aspirations  each  time  they  kneel  before  Him,  in 
His  Eucharistic  Presence ;  there  to  offer,  through  thy 
pure  heart  and  hands,  their  tribute  of  most  grateful 
love,  to  His  Divine  and  Sacred  Heart,  in  the  ever- 
adorable  Sacrament  of  the  Altar ! 


BLIND  AGNESE 

OS,  THE 

LITTLE  SPOUSE  OF  THE  BLESSED  SACRAMENT 


CHAPTER  I 

PHE  lights  were  extinguished,  the  people  were  gone, 
the  orange  and  the  myrtle,  the  rose  and  the 
jessamine  were  fading  on  the  floor,  and  Jesus,  who, 
in  the  Sacrament  of  His  love,  had  upon  that  day  pre- 
sided visibly  from  His  altar-throne  over  the  devotions 
of  His  creatures,  was  once  more  concealed  beneath  the 
veils  of  the  tabernacle,  where  for  more  than  eighteen 
centuries  His  love  has  held  Him  captive.  It  was  the 
Feast  of  His  Most  Sacred  Heart,  which  comes  to  us 
in  the  midst  of  the  fervid  days  of  June,  as  if  to  remind 
us  of  the  love  with  which  He  burns  for  us  and  of 
the  love  with  which  He  would  have  us  to  burn  for 
Him;  and  during  the  sweet  service  of  the  evening 
benediction,  the  lovers  of  that  most  blest  devotion 
had  knelt  before  Him — some  in  joy,  and  some  in  sor- 
row ;  some  with  souls  consciously  burning  in  His  em- 
braces; others  without  any  sensible  perception  of  His 
presence ;  but  all  with  the  prayer  of  Jacob  upon  their 
lips  and  in  their  hearts — "I  will  not  let  thee  go  except 
thou  bless  me."  And  He  did  bless  them  in  that  hour ; 

5 


C  BLIND  AGNESE 

He  would  not  be  less  merciful  than  His  angel,  He 
would  not  deny  the  petition  which  His  ministering 
spirit  had  been  unable  to  refuse ;  'but  high  above  the 
altar,  in  the  hands  of  His  priest,  amid  clouds  of  in- 
cense, and  dying  strains  of  music,  and  the  tingling 
of  low  bells,  and  falling  of  fresh  flowers,  He  poured 
out  upon  them  His  parting  benediction,  such  a  benedic- 
tion as  He  had  already  breathed  upon  His  disciples 
when  ascending  from  them  into  heaven — a  benedic- 
tion as  full  of  mercy,  as  full  of  love,  as  full  of  ma- 
jesty, as  full  of  power,  and  falling  upon  hearts,  if  not 
as  faithful,  at  least,  it  may  be  said,  as  full  of  faith. 
For  in  that  mighty  multitude  not  one  was  found  to 
doubt  of  the  reality  of  His  presence  among  them ;  not 
one  who,  with  beating  heart,  and  bowed  down  head, 
and  spirit  rapt  into  hushed  and  voiceless  adoration, 
did  not  kneel  before  his  Eucharistic  Saviour,  in  the 
full  conviction  that  His  eye  was  on  them,  and  His 
heart  was  with  them,  and  His  lips  unclosed  to  speak 
His  blessing,  and  His  hands  extended  to  invoke  it  on 
their  heads ;  and  with  such  a  faith  as  this  among  them, 
who  shall  wonder  if,  when  the  service  was  over,  and 
they  once  more  went  forth  to  their  homes,  it  was  with 
hearts  lightened  at  least  of  half  their  cares,  filled  to 
overflowing  in  the  consolations  showered  on  them  by 
that  presence,  made  even  "as  a  plentiful  field  which 
the  Lord  hath  blest,"  beneath  the  gifts  and  graces 
imparted  in  that  blessing?  They  were  gone,  but  not 
all:  one  there  was  who  yet  knelt  before  His  altar,  at- 
tracted, compelled,  chained  to  it,  as  it  were  by  the  fas- 
cination of  His  presence.  To  that  rapt  up,  bowed 
down  spirit,  He  was  invisible,  and  yet  most  visible; 


BLIND  AGNESE  7 

He  was  silent,  and  yet  most  eloquently  persuasive  of 
His  love;  and  if  He  were  held  apart  and  separated 
from  it  by  the  door  of  the  tabernacle,  yet  did  He  draw 
it  to  run  after  Him  in  the  sweet  odour  of  his  oint- 
ments, until  love  made  Him  all  but  tangible  to  its 
spiritual  embraces.  And  in  whom,  do  you  think,  and 
in  what  visible  form  was  this  spirit  of  love  and  devo- 
tion enshrined  ?  It  was  no  aged  priest,  grown  gray  in 
the  service  of  the  altar,  who  now  knelt  at  its  foot.  No 
cloistered  nun,  who  had  identified  herself  with  the 
Lord  of  the  sanctuary,  by  a  life-long  renunciation  of 
His  enemy,  the  world — No  high  prince,  descended 
from  his  throne,  to  adore  Him  with  the  magi — No 
courtly  dame,  come  hither,  like  another  Magdalen,  to 
lay  her  beauty,  her  tresses,  and  her  perfumes  at  His 
feet.  It  was  but  a  poor  beggar  girl,  who,  in  her  in- 
nocent years,  and  her  tattered  rags,  and  her  humble 
station,  seemed  an  earthly  embodiment  of  His  favour- 
ite virtues.  If  she  were  alone,  or  if  the  crowd  were 
still  around  her,  she  knew  it  not,  for  her  whole  soul 
was  with  the  silent  dweller  in  the  tabernacle,  feeding 
upon  His  sweetness,  who  himself  doth  feed  among 
the  lilies ;  and  yet  in  that  hour  a  human  eye  was  fixed 
upon  her,  and  a  human  mind  was  speculating  about 
her.  Nor  was  it  for  her  beauty,  although  the  beauty 
of  devotion,  the  true  beauty  of  the  seraph,  was  beam- 
ing from  her  features.  Nor  was  it  for  her  picturesque 
appearance,  although  her  rags  were  disposed  as  only  a 
lazzaroni  of  Naples  knows  how  to  dispose  them — col- 
our contrasting  colour,  and  patches  of  black,  and 
scarlet,  and  yellow,  and  rich  brown,  mingling  together 
just  as  they  would  have  been  mingled  by  the  cunning 


8  BLIND  AGNESE 

of  a  painter.  Nor  was  it  for  her  youth,  although  she 
was  but  a  mere  child;  children  as  young  are,  thanks 
be  to  God,  no  rare  sight  in  Italy,  kneeling  before  His 
altar.  The  eye  was  fixed  upon  her,  in  wonder  how  the 
human  form  could  remain  so  still — the  mind  was  en- 
gaged in  speculation  and  in  question,  as  to  what  in- 
visible influence  it  was,  which  could  give  such  deep 
meaning  to  that  child-like  brow,  such  seraph  beauty 
to  those  child-like  features. 

"How  motionless  she  is!"  thought  this  second 
watcher  in  the  temple,  "and  how  very  fair.  I  wonder 
how  long  she  will  remain  in  that  attitude  of  prayer. 
Oh,  that  I  were  a  painter,  that  I  might  give  her  to 
the  world  as  my  vision  of  an  angel.  Surely,  she  must 
weary  soon.  I  will  wait,  and  speak  to  her  as  she  is 
leaving  the  church." 

But  minute  after  minute  passed  away,  and  she  did 
not  seem  to  weary.  The  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
streamed  full  upon  her  kneeling  form,  and  gave  a  new 
richness  to  her  many-coloured  costume,  and  fell  with 
an  almost  unearthly  radiance  upon  her  brow;  and  no 
trace  of  weariness  was  to  be  found  upon  it — no  change 
of  attitude  which  might  convey  the  idea  of  bodily  or 
mental  fatigue.  It  was  all  repose — thought  in  repose, 
repose  in  thought — as  if  body  and  soul  were  both  re- 
clining in  the  arms  of  one  invisibly  beside  her.  And 
now  the  watcher  herself  began  to  grow  impatient — 
twice  she  arose,  as  if  to  rouse  the  child  from  her  de- 
votions, and  twice  she  desisted  from  her  purpose,  for 
each  time  she  approached  that  kneeling  figure  a  kind 
of  awe,  for  which  she  could  not  account,  came  over 
her  own  spirit — it  seemed  so  like  an  irreverent  in- 


BLIND  AGNESE  9 

trusion  upon  the  communications  of  the  invisible 
creator  with  the  visible  creature.  Half  in  wonder, 
half  in  vexation,  she  retired  to  her  own  seat,  and  as 
she  did  so  for  the  second  time,  she  discovered  that  she 
was  not  the  only  one  engaged  in  a  similar  scrutiny.  A 
door,  which  she  had  not  perceived  before,  was  open, 
and  an  old  man  was  standing  near  it,  not  merely 
watching  the  child,  but  making  signal  after  signal  that 
she  should  approach  him.  They  were  all  unheeded, 
for  they  were  all  unseen;  and  then  he  advanced  into 
the  church,  his  foot  falling  without  sound  among  the 
flowers  that  carpeted  the  pavement;  but  when  he 
reached  her  side  he  also  paused,  as  if  in  doubt  whether 
to  disturb  or  to  leave  her  with  her  God.  It  was,  how- 
ever, only  the  hesitation  of  a  moment;  directly  after- 
wards he  touched  her  on  the  shoulder,  whispering 
something  at  the  same  time  in  her  ear,  and,  apparently 
in  obedience  to  his  summons,  the  child  arose  and  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  open  door,  which  closed  immediately 
upon  them,  greatly,  it  must  be  owned,  to  the  disap- 
pointment of  the  old  lady,  who  had  been  an  interested 
witness  of  the  scene. 

"My  poor  Agnese,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  com- 
passionate smile,  "for  a  moment  I  forgot  your  mis- 
fortune, and  beckoned  as  though  I  imagined  you  could 
see  me." 

"I  knew  you  would  have  work  for  me  this  even- 
ing," said  the  young  girl,  in  a  voice  which  fell  like 
soft  music  on  the  ear,  it  was  so  plaintive  and  so  sweet, 
"and  so  I  thought  I  would  wait  until  you  came  to 
call  me." 

"And  then  forgot  the  old  man,  in  thought  of  Him 


io  BLIND  AGNESE 

to  whose  service  the  old  man  would  call  you,"  returned 
her  companion,  with  a  smile. 

<rVes,  Francesco." 

"I  should  like  to  know  those  thoughts,  my  child. 
Strange  it  is  that  one  so  young  should  find  within 
herself  the  source  of  such  deep  and  holy  meditation." 

"Not  so  strange,  Francesco ;  remember  I  am  blind." 

"You  are  right,  my  child;  the  good  Jesus  never 
withholds  a  gift  without  replacing  it  by  another,  ten- 
fold its  value ;  and  so,  perhaps,  He  has  but  blinded  you 
to  the  things  of  this  earth,  in  order  to  give  you  a 
facility  for  discerning  the  glories  of  His  invisible 
kingdom,  in  a  manner  not  often  granted  to  His  poor 
creatures  while  yet  in  the  body." 

"How  do  you  see  Jesus,  Francesco?"  said  Agnese, 
abruptly.  "I  know  that  God  and  the  man  He  is  on  our 
altars,  but  then  I  know  not  well  what  an  altar  is  like, 
and  I  have  never  seen  a  man." 

"When  I  kneel  before  the  altar,"  said  the  old  man, 
in  the  tone  and  manner  of  one  describing  what  he  sees, 
what  he  is  seeing  at  that  moment,  "I  first  say  to  my- 
self, Jesus  is  in  the  tabernacle — I  know  that  He  is 
there:  I  believe  it  as  if  my  very  eyes  beheld  Him. 
He  is  there  in  His  divinity — in  His  humanity  He  is 
there.  Methinks,  therefore,  that  I  look  upon  Him  in 
the  human  form  which  He  took  from  Mary,  but  which 
is  now  all  light  and  radiance — radiant  in  its  own  glori- 
fied nature — but  yet  more  radiant  in  the  glory  of  the 
divinity,  by  which  it  is  embued,  and  penetrated,  and 
filled  to  overflowing.  I  behold  Him  a  God  and  yet  a 
man — a  man  and  still  a  God;  and  if  the  awed  majesty 
of  His  Heavenly  Father  be  throned  upon  his  brow,  yet 


BLIND  AGNESE  11 

is  it  mingled  with  that  sweet  and  gentle  look,  which 
made  Him  on  earth  so  like  His  mother." 

"Go  on,  dear  Francesco,"  said  Agnese,  sitting  down 
at  his  feet,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hand :  "go 
on ;  I  love  to  hear  you." 

"Yet  doth  He  wear  the  garment  of  His  shame,  but 
now  woven  of  the  light  which  the  Lamb  sheds  over 
His  loved  in  Heaven,  flows  it  in  robes  of  brightness 
to  His  feet.  Yet  doth  He  bear  the  crown  with  which 
our  sins  have  diademed  his  brow,  but  now  the  lustre 
of  millions  of  millions  of  diamonds  seem  concentrated 
in  every  thorn.  Yet  doth  He  show  those  wounds 
which,  in  His  hands,  and  feet,  and  side  He  refused 
not  for  our  love;  but  for  the  blood  once  shed  there- 
from streams  of  glory  and  of  sweetness  are  pouring 
from  them  now.  And  beneath  this  glorious  veil  of 
His  humanity,  methinks  I  discern  the  light  inacces- 
sible of  His  divinity,  dwelling  within  the  sacred  heart, 
as  in  its  temple,  and  from  thence  pouring  itself  forth 
in  floods  of  grace,  and  gladness,  and  mercy  on  His 
creatures.  Within  that  sacred  heart  is  love,  and  peace, 
and  holy  calm,  a  silence  inexpressible — around  it  are 
spirits  bowed,  cherubim  and  seraphim  in  reverent 
adoration.  There  have  the  weary  of  earth  found  rest 
at  last  and  the  saints  their  exceeding  great  reward, 
and  Mary  herself  her  heaven  of  heavens.  Methinks, 
that  He  is  inviting  me,  even  me,  the  most  sinful  of 
His  creatures,  to  the  embraces  of  that  most  sacred 
heart — that  He  holds  out  to  me  His  wounded  hands—- 
that,  out  of  the  very  depths  of  his  tenderness,  He  is 
speaking  to  my  soul,  and  fixing  on  me  those  eyes  which 
once  were  fixed  in  dying  sweetness  on  His  mother; 


12  BLIND  AGNESE 

and  so,  in  awful  and  yet  most  calm  affection,  I  kneel 
before  Him,  and  press  to  my  lips  that  robe  which  once 
imparted  of  His  virtue  to  the  sick  woman  of  the 
Gospel;  and  kiss  those  feet  which  were  not  refused 
to  the  embraces  of  a  Magdalen;  and  inhale  the  frag- 
rance of  those  wounds,  once  terrible  in  their  gore, 
but  now  so  beautiful  and  sweet — sweet  with  the  'smell 
of  Lebanon/  the  'odour  of  his  ointments.'  And  then 
at  last,"  continued  the  old  man,  and  his  voice  grew 
tremulous  and  "full  of  tears,"  "it  seems  to  me  that 
He  permits  me  to  a  yet  closer  union  with  Himself, 
that  He  even  says — 'Friend,  come  up  higher,'  that  He 
folds  His  arms  around  me,  that  He  lays  my  head 
upon  His  sacred  bosom,  breathing  of  paradise,  that 
He  draws  me  even  to  the  centre  of  His  sacred  heart, 
and  in  its  holy  stillness  imparts  to  me  those  lessons 
of  heavenly  love  and  wisdom  which  once,  by  His 
living  lips,  He  gave  to  His  disciples.  And  what  are 
those  lessons,  dear  child,  if  they  are  not  contained  in 
such  words  as  these  ? — 'Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit ; 
blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  com- 
forted; blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  find 
mercy.'  Or  again — 'Learn  of  me,  for  I  am  meek  and 
humble  of  heart,  and  you  shall  find  peace  in  your 
souls.  'My  yoke  is  sweet,  and  my  burden  light.'  And 
I  listen,  dear  Agnese,  until  my  very  heart  and  soul 
seem  steeped  in  the  sweetness  of  these  words  as  in 
the  dew  of  heaven  itself;  and  then  I  say  in  my  turn, 
not  indeed  by  my  lips,  but  by  the  internal  language 
of  the  Spirit — 'Speak,  Lord,  for  thy  servant  heareth; 
thou  hast  the  words  of  eternal  life;  say  to  my  soul,  I 
am  thy  salvation.' " 


BLIND  AGNESE  13 

"That  is  very  beautiful,  and  of  great  devotion," 
said  Agnese,  and,  for  an  instant,  there  was  something 
of  sadness  in  her  sweet,  low  voice,  "but  then,  you 
know,  I  cannot  think  or  feel  that  way,  because  I 
cannot  see;  therefore,  I  cannot  image  to  myself  what 
Christ  is  like  in  His  glorified  humanity." 

"Then  tell  me,  Agnese,  what  it  is  that  draws  you  to 
His  altar?" 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you,  it  is  so  much  easier  to  feel 
than  to  describe.  I  am  drawn  to  Jesus,  I  know  not 
how — embraced  by  Him,  I  cannot  tell  you  in  what 
manner.  It  is  as  if  a  spirit  of  awe,  and  power,  and 
majesty,  and  greatness  was  overshadowing  the  sanc- 
tuary, aweing  and  hushing  every  creature  into  silence ; 
around  that  holy  spot  do  angels  and  saints  keep  sleep- 
less watch,  and  the  Mother  of  God  is  ever  there.  I  do 
not  see  them,  but  I  feel  them  at  my  side — sometimes 
in  silence  they  adore ;  sometimes  in  strains  of  sweetest 
music  they  sing  His  praises,  and  ever  and  always  they 
cast  their  crowns  before  Him,  and  send  up  incense 
from  their  golden  horns,  and  scatter  the  flowers  of 
paradise  at  His  feet;  and  so  it  seems  to  me,  that  all 
the  perfumes  of  the  earth  are  not  so  sweet — all  the 
music  of  the  earth  is  not  so  full  of  harmony  and 
love — all  the  brightness  and  glory  of  the  earth  are 
not  and  cannot  be  so  glorious  and  so  bright,  as  is  the 
Holy  of  Holies  where  Jesus  ever  dwelleth  in  the  taber- 
nacle of  the  altar.  Francesco,  I  do  not  imagine  that 
I  see  Him  there,  for,  methinks,  the  light  of  God, 
which  is  in  Jesus,  and  which  Jesus  is,  must  be  as 
darkness  itself  to  human  eye,  and  human  understand- 
ing. Neither  do  I  know  what  sight  of  earth  is  like, 


14  BLIND  AGNESE 

but  this  is  my  thought  of  the  light  of  heaven,  and  from 
out  that  visible,  tangible  darkness,  Jesus  draws  me  to 
Himself,  until  my  soul  seems  to  leave  the  body,  to  be 
lost  and  swallowed  up,  and  forget  itself  in  His  im- 
mensity; or,  rather,  perhaps,  it  is,  that  He  Himself 
draws  near  to  me,  nearer  and  nearer,  closer  and  closer, 
until  He  is  in  my  heart,  and  in  my  soul,  and  in  my 
very  body,  filling  every  sense  with  joy,  satiating  every 
feeling  with  delight,  forcing  me  to  weep  in  tears  of 
delicious  sweetness,  and  to  say,  as  it  were,  in  my  own 
despite — Lord,  let  me  never  see;  it  is  joy  enough  to 
feel  thou  art  so  near." 

It  was  no  child  who  spoke  such  words  as  these. 
For  a  moment  Agnese  was  not  a  child,  she  looked  and 
felt  like  a  seraph  at  the  altar.  So  Francesco  fancied, 
as  he  looked  upon  her,  but  he  did  not  tell  his  thought. 
He  remembered  that  His  angel,  who  saw  the  face  of 
the  Father  in  heaven,  would  have  reason  to  complain 
if  he  injured  the  humility  of  His  little  one  by  words  of 
praise;  so,  after  a  moment's  reverent  pause,  he  only 
said — 

"Agnese,  your  words  remind  me  of  a  story,  which 
I  read  many  and  many  a  long  year  ago,  about  a  child, 
not  older,  if  indeed,  as  old,  as  you  are." 

"Tell  it  to  me,  if  it  be  about  Him,  Francesco,"  said 
the  child,  "particularly  if  it  be  true.  There  now,  I 
have  settled  myself  nicely  at  your  feet,  and  I  shall 
listen  quite  at  my  ease." 

"I  cannot  answer  for  its  being  entirely  true,  and  it 
is  so  long  since  I  read  it,  that  I  almost  forget  it.  She 
was  an  orphan,  brought  up  from  her  earliest  infancy 
in  a  convent,  of  which  her  aunt  was  abbess.  I  think 


BLIND  AGNESE  15 

her  Heavenly  Father  must  Himself  have  chosen  out 
this  sanctuary  of  peace  for  His  little  one,  in  order  that 
no  obstacle  might  be  opposed  to  the  graces  which  He 
had  reserved  for  her  innocent  soul,  and  by  means  of 
which  He  so  drew  her  to  Himself  that,  from  the 
earliest  dawn  of  reason,  her  thoughts  seemed  to  turn 
as  naturally  to  Him  as  the  thoughts  of  other  children 
do  to  the  toys  and  ornaments  of  their  age.  From  the 
moment  she  could  speak,  her  words  were  of  Jesus; 
from  the  moment  she  could  walk,  her  feet  ever  turned 
towards  the  altar  of  Jesus ;  spiritually,  every  day,  and 
every  hour  of  the  day,  she  united  herself  to  Him  by 
her  fervent  desires,  although  far  too  young  to  be  re- 
ceived into  sacramental  communion  with  Him,  yet 
was  this  the  object  of  her  most  earnest  aspirations, 
of  her  unceasing  petitions.  Day  after  day  she  used  to 
accompany  the  nuns  to  the  church,  and  to  watch  them, 
with  eyes  of  envy,  as  two  by  two  they  approached  the 
altar,  and  two  by  two  returned  to  their  places;  and 
when  she  saw  them  depart  in  peace,  because  their  God 
was  with  them,  she  would  prostrate  herself  at  the  feet 
of  the  abbess,  and  implore  her,  with  many  tears,  to 
give  to  her  this  Jesus,  in  whose  embraces  she  herself 
was  so  happily  folded." 

"And  they  would  not?"  said  Agnese,  in  a  tone  of 
deep  sympathy. 

"She  was  so  young,  my  child.  But,  young  as  she 
was,  God  had  given  to  her  a  faith,  a  perception  of 
the  real  presence  of  Jesus  in  the  sacrament,  which 
saints  deem  themselves  happy  to  attain,  after  years  of 
penance,  solitude,  and  prayer,  and  often  she  has  been 
heard  to  say  in  her  sorrow,  'He  is  near,  and  I  cannot 


16  BLIND  AGNESE 

approach  Him;  He  is  here,  and  I  cannot  possess 
Him;  He  is  with  all  the  others,  and  I  alone  am  de- 
prived of  His  embraces.'  Of  her  it  might  be  truly 
said,  that  she  mourned  like  the  dove,  whose  sweet 
name  she  bore,  for  she  did  languish  and  pine  until 
her  bodily  health  sank  beneath  the  vehement  desires 
of  her  soul.  Her  step  grew  languid,  and  her  cheek 
grew  pale,  and  her  eye  softer  and  softer  still,  and 
yet,  within  its  depth  of  softness  (so  the  old  legend 
tells  us),  a  light,  as  if  of  heaven,  did  dwell;  and  still 
the  languid  step  led  her  to  the  altar,  and  the  weary 
head  was  bowed  before  it,  and  the  eye  was  turned  in 
patient  sorrow  towards  the  dove  that  watched  above 
it,  floating  calm,  and  silvery,  and  pale,  beneath  the 
lighted  lamp  of  the  holy  place,  and  seeming  to  tell, 
even  in  its  outward  form,  of  Him,  the  peaceful  and 
the  pure,  who  night  and  day  reposed  within  its 
bosom." 

"Him,  Francesco!  do  you  mean  Him?  Was  Jesus 
really  dwelling  within  the  dove?" 

"In  those  days,  Agnese,  the  blessed  sacrament  was 
not  kept  upon  the  altar;  it  was  placed  in  a  silver  ves- 
sel, suspended  from  above,  and  most  often,  I  believe, 
fashioned  in  the  likeness  of  a  dove — a  dove,  chosen, 
perhaps,  because  of  the  sweet  and  loving  qualities 
with  which  our  fancy  has  invested  her.  Yes,  and  I 
may  also  say,  within  which  God  Himself  has  chosen 
to  surround  her,  making  her  ever,  as  it  were,  His 
messenger  of  peace  to  mankind.  And  so  it  may  have 
seemed  right  and  fitting  to  the  early  Christians  that 
she,  who  brought  the  olive  branch  to  Noah,  should 
likewise  bear  Him  above  that  altar,  to  which  never 


BLIND  AGNESE  17 

would  He  descend  except  in  thoughts  of  loving-kind- 
ness to  His  creatures." 

"A  dove,"  said  Agnese,  thoughtfully — "that  is  for 
meditation:  is  it  not?" 

"True,"  said  the  old  man,  "so  she  would  also  re- 
mind them  how  they  were  to  meditate  like  doves  be- 
fore Him,  and  how  they  were  to  put  off  their  rough, 
ungainly  notions,  and  to  put  on  His  meek  and  dove- 
like  spirit,  for  He  was  a  very  dove  in  heart,  and  he 
came  to  us  through  the  dove-like  Mary." 

"Tell  me  now  about  the  child,  Francesco,  and  what 
was  her  name?  Did  you  not  say  she  was  the  name- 
sake of  the  dove?" 

"She  was  called  Colomba;  I  know  not  whether  for 
her  sweet  and  quiet  disposition,  or  for  the  sake  of 
her  silver  favourite  and  companion  at  the  altar." 

"That  is  well,  Francesco;  but  I  am  called  Agnese, 
and  that  is  better  still.  For  I  am  the  namesake  of 
the  lamb,  and  not  of  the  chalice  in  which  He  is  con- 
tained." 

"Colomba  grew  so  weak  at  last  that  she  could 
neither  walk  nor  stand,  and  then  they  would  carry 
her  to  the  church  and  lay  her  on  the  pavement  just 
beneath  the  silver  guardian  of  the  altar.  Here  they 
used  to  leave  her — for  she  always  was  best  pleased 
to  be  left  alone  with  Jesus.  But  often  they  watched 
her  through  the  hours  when  she  deemed  herself  un- 
seen— and  those  who  did  so  have  left  it  on  record, 
how  she  would  lay  motionless  as  one  in  a  slumber,  her 
hands  folded  on  her  bosom,  her  eyes  lifted  to  the 
dove,  which,  through  the  feeble  light  and  gloomy 
shadow,  seemed  watching  her  from  on  high — and  ever 


18  BLIND  AGNESE 

and  anon,  after  a  long  and  loving  silence,  she  would 
say  in  a  voice  so  sweet  and  sad,  it  might  have  been  the 
very  mourning  of  the  quiet  bird  she  looked  on — 'Oh, 
that  the  dove  would  descend  and  give  Him  to  my 
prayers.' 

"One  day  she  seemed  so  feeble  they  almost  feared 
to  move  her,  but  she  prayed  so  earnestly  to  be  carried 
to  the  church  for  the  last  time  to  visit  Jesus,  that 
the  nuns  had  it  not  in  their  hearts  to  refuse  her  peti- 
tion. So  they  bore  her  to  His  altar,  and  then,  yet 
more  earnestly  than  she  had  ever  done  before,  she  be- 
sought them  to  leave  her  to  herself.  It  always  ap- 
peared strange  to  them  afterwards  that  they  should 
have  done  so;  they  did  not  understand  their  feelings 
at  the  moment ;  but  later  they  confessed  to  one  another 
that  a  kind  of  awful  love  had  crept  over  their  spirits, 
she  looked  and  spoke  so  like  a  creature  acting  and 
speaking  under  the  direct  influence  of  the  Spirit  of 
God,  her  very  words  penetrating  their  hearts  with  a 
kind  of  celestial  sweetness,  such  as  they  had  never  felt 
or  known  before.  It  seemed  almost,  to  them,  as  if 
some  hidden  influence  had  left  them  no  choice  but 
to  obey  her. 

"One  there  was,  however,  not  quite  so  submissive 
to  the  wishes  of  Colomba;  this  was  her  little  sister, 
who  was  passionately  attached  to  her,  and  to  whom 
she  herself  was  fondly  devoted.  The  child,  it  ap- 
pears, could  not  bear  to  leave  her,  ill  and  alone,  in 
that  gloomy  church,  so  she  hid  herself  behind  one  of 
the  pillars,  and  watched  her  from  a  distance. 

"Then,  as  ever,  Colomba  folded  her  hands  upon 
her  bosom,  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  silver  dove, 


BLIND  AGNESE  19 

and  said  so  softly  and  beseechingly — 'Oh,  that  thou 
wouldst  descend  and  give  Him  to  my  prayers.'  And 
then — scarcely  could  the  child  believe  her  eyes — 
slowly  and  steadily,  through  the  dim  shadows  of  the 
evening,  the  dove  descended — the  light  of  the  lamp 
above  gleaming  brightly  on  its  silver  wings — and,  as 
if  some  secret  spirit  gave  her  power,  Colomba  rose  to 
meet  it.  And  her  folded  arms  were  folded  still,  and 
her  head  was  bowed  in  lowliest  prayer,  and  she  knelt, 
yet  scarcely  did  she  seem  to  touch  the  pavement,  and 
a  soft  and  silvery  mist  seemed  floating  round  her,  as. 
if  to  fold  her  from  all  mortal  vision.  And  then,  in 
fear  and  wonder,  the  child  ran  to  summon  her  com- 
panions; but  when  the  nuns  returned  with  her  to  the 
church  the  dove  had  re-ascended  to  its  former  posi- 
tion, and  the  child  lay  once  more  stretched  upon  the 
pavement — peace  on  her  brow,  an  unutterablejexpres- 
sion  (it  could  not  be  called  a  smile)  yet  resting  on  her 
lips.  The  nuns  were  frightened  at  her  stillness.  They 
drew  near,  but  she  did  not  move ;  they  spoke,  but  she 
did  not  answer.  They  kissed  her,  but  no  look  of 
gratitude  was  returned  for  their  embraces.  Still 
seemed  the  bird  of  the  sanctuary  to  brood  over  the 
fair  child,  but  Colomba  no  longer  had  need  of  its  as- 
sistance— closed  were  the  eyes  which  had  been  fixed 
upon  it  so  often  and  so  long,  hushed  was  the  voice 
which  had  called  it  from  on  high.  The  dove's  celestial 
habitant  had  taken  her  to  Himself,  and  the  child  was 
dead." 

"Francesco !  But  He  had  come  to  her  in  her  dying 
hour." 

"Who  can  tell?"  replied  Francesco.     "This  much, 


20  BLIND  AGNESE 

indeed,  is  certain,  that  when  the  dove  was  lowered, 
one  was  missing  of  the  Sacred  Hosts  which  had  been 
confided  to  its  keeping;  and  so  the  nuns  were  left  un- 
certainly to  conjecture  that  Jesus,  whose  delight  it  is 
to  be  with  the  children  of  men,  would  not  refuse  Him- 
self to  the  embraces  of  this  child,  nor  suffer  her  soul 
to  go  forth  from  her  body  until  He  had  blessed 

it  by  His  sacramental  presence.  And but  you  can 

guess  the  rest,  Agnese.  The  joy  was  too  much  for 
her  wasted  frame — she  died  in  that  moment  of  un- 
utterable bliss." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  when  Francesco  looked 
again  upon  his  young  companion,  he  saw  that  she  could 
not  speak,  so  fast  were  the  tears  streaming  from  her 
blind  eyes. 

"To  die  of  love !  it  was,  indeed,  a  death  to  die,  more 
blessed  than  any  life  could  be,"  he  added.  There  was 
another  pause,  and  then  Agnese  whispered,  in  a  voice 
which  seemed,  to  the  old  man's  fancy,  as  the  very 
echo  of  Colomba's — 

"Oh,  that  the  dove  would  descend  once  more  and 
give  Him  to  my. prayers." 

"We  must  have  patience  a  little  longer — fanciullina 
mia.  You  are  older  than  the  little  saint  of  whom  we 
have  been  speaking,  and  soon  Padre  Giovanni  will  be- 
gin to  talk  of  our  first  communion." 

"Soon!  Do  you  think  he  will  talk  about  it  soon, 
Francesco?"  said  Agnese,  her  whole  face  lighting  up 
with  a  look  of  joyful  surprise. 

"I  must  not  reveal  the  Padre's  secrets,"  said  the 
old  man,  smiling;  "only  wait  a  very  little  longer,  and 
then  we  shall  see ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  dear  Agnese, 


BLIND  AGNESE  21 

we  will  work  for  Jesus  with  Martha,  that  we  may  earn 
the  happiness  of  resting  afterwards  at  His  feet  with 
Mary.  See,  here  are  the  little  corporals  for  the  wash ; 
and  remember,  dear  child,  we  are  rather  in  want  of 
them  just  now." 

"You  shall  have  them  by  to-morrow  morning,  Fran- 
cesco." 

"Nay,  my  child,  you  must  not  sit  up  all  night  to  do 
it.  The  sweet  Jesus  would  never  demand  such  a  hard 
task  of  his  little  one.  Time  enough,  if  you  bring  them 
to  me  in  the  evening." 

"You  shall  have  them  in  the  morning,  Francesco," 
replied  the  child  in  a  tone  of  quiet  resolution.  "Adieu, 
Francesco." 

"Adieu,  my  child.  What  have  you  done  with  Per- 
letta?" 

"I  left  her  at  the  porch." 

"Well,  you  have  kept  her  a  long  time  waiting.  You 
had  better  make  haste  and  seek  her,  else,  if  you  leave 
her  alone  much  longer,  perhaps  she  will  take  it  into 
her  head  to  go  home  without  you,  as  she  did  once  be- 
fore, Agnese." 

"She  has  never  played  me  such  a  trick  but  once, 
•Francesco.  No,  no,  there  is  no  fear  of  Perletta;  she 
is  grown  very  patient." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  of  that,  Agnese.  Adieu,  my 
child." 

Francesco  left  the  vestry  through  another  door, 
just  as  Agnese  opened  the  one  by  which  she  had  en- 
tered it  with  him,  stumbling  as  she  did  so  over  the  old 
lady  whom  she  had  so  long  and  unwittingly  left  wait- 
ing on  the  outside.  Determined  not  to  leave  the 


22  BLIND  AGNESE 

church  without  speaking  to  the  child,  and  yet,  feeling 
too  weary  and  tantalized  to  remain  patient  any 
longer,  she  had  just  made  up  her  mind  to  break  in 
upon  their  conversation,  when,  as  we  have  seen, 
Agnese  opened  the  door,  and  in  her  blindness  stepped 
directly  upon  her  feet.  The  sufferer  uttered  an 
involuntary  scream,  and  then,  as  sufferers  will  upon 
such  occasions,  she  could  not  resist  saying,  in  a  petu- 
lant tone — 

"You  have  hurt  me,  child ;  if  you  had  not  left  your 
eyes  before  the  altar  you  might  have  seen  that  you 
were  walking  quite  over  my  feet;  one  would  fancy 
you  were  blind." 

"Pardon  me,  Madam,"  said  the  child,  in  a  voice 
of  distress,  but  which  had  not  even  the  shadow  of  im- 
patience in  it — "pardon  me,  for  I  am  blind." 

"Blind !  Good  God,"  cried  the  old  lady,  "how  cruel 
I  must  have  appeared." 

And  then  she  looked  more  steadily  at  the  child, 
and  she  saw  that,  though  the  young  face  was  turned 
towards  her,  with  an  expression  of  sympathy  in  her 
suffering,  the  eyes  were  not  lifted  to  hers  as  they 
would  so  naturally  have  been.  The  lids  were  closed, 
the  long  lashes  swept  over  her  cheeks — there  was  no 
temptation  to  raise  them,  for  sight  there  was  none 
beneath. 

"Alas,  poor  child!"  said  she  again,  struck  by  the 
meek  and  holy  expression  of  that  face;  "how  long 
have  you  been  thus  ?  or  were  you,  indeed,  as  I  should 
think,  born  blind?" 

"I  know  not;  but  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have 
seen  the  light,  Signora." 


BLIND  AGNESE  23 

"And  are  you  here  alone?  have  you  no  one  to  lead 
you  home,  my  child?"  asked  her  companion,  now,  in 
a  tone  of  tenderest  compassion. 

"Si,  Signora,  Perletta  is  waiting  for  me  at  the  porch, 
and  I  can  always  go  so  far  by  myself." 

Without  saying  another  word  the  old  lady  led  her 
down  the  aisle,  as  far  as  the  open  gate  of  the  church ; 
there  the  child  paused,  and  thanked  her  gently  for  her 
kindness. 

"I  will  trouble  the  Signora  no  further,"  she  said; 
"the  dog  will  see  me  home.  Perletta,  Perletta;"  but 
no  Perletta  answered. 

"My  child,  no  dog  is  here,"  said  the  old  lady  anx- 
iously. I  fear  it  has  forsaken  you." 

"What  shall  I  do  ?"  said  the  poor  child,  sadly.  "My 
God,  what  has  become  of  Perletta?  Never  but  once 
before  did  she  desert  me  in  this  manner." 

"Whither  do  you  want  to  go,  my  child?"  asked  the 
old  lady,  more  touched  than  ever  by  her  forlorn  look 
and  evident  distress.  "Tell  me  where  you  wish  to  go, 
and  I  will  gladly  lead  you  thither." 

"The  Signora  is  very  good ;  I  thank  her  with  all  my 
heart,"  said  the  child  submissively.  "It  is  only  to  my 
grandmother;  she  sells  lemonade  in  yonder  grove; 
perhaps  the  Signora  knows  her  already,  for  she  often 
deals  out  iced  waters  to  the  fine  ladies  who  leave  their 
carriages  to  rest  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  orange 
trees." 

"The  old  woman  who  serves  out  water  from  the 
fountain,  is  she  your  grandmother  ?  I  know  her  well ; 
many  a  time  have  I  tasted  of  her  delicious  lemonade. 
Come,  my  child,  we  shall  soon  be  there,  and  your 


24  BLIND  AGNESE 

grandmother  shall  give  me  a  glass  of  iced  water  for 
my  reward." 

"He  will  give  the  Signora  a  better  one,  some 
day,  I  hope,  for  her  kindness  to  His  poor  blind 
lamb." 

"Tell  me,  what  is  your  name,  my  child?" 

The  old  lady  asked  again  as  they  took  their  way  to 
the  orange  grove. 

"I  have  said  it,  Signora;  it  is  Agnese;  that  is  for 
lamb,  you  know.  So  they  call  me  Blind  Agnese,  and 
sometimes,  in  their  sport,  the  children  name  me,  also 
the  Little  Spouse  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament." 

"Little  Spouse  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,"  said  the 
lady  in  an  undertone ;  "what  a  strange  name,  and  what 
a  strange  child.  And  does  not  this  blindness  grieve 
you?"  she  said  aloud. 

The  question  sounded  cruel,  and  the  lady  felt  it 
did,  yet  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  trying 
to  penetrate  the  secret  feelings  of  this  child,  who  had 
interested  her  so  strangely. 

There  was  no  trace,  however,  of  pain  or  of  regret 
upon  Agnese's  face  as  she  answered — 

"It  would  grieve  me  sadly,  Signora,  were  it  not  for 
Him." 

"For  who?  my  child — the  old  man  I  saw  speaking 
to  you  just  now?" 

"No,  Signora,  not  Francesco,  though  he  is  a  kind- 
ness, and  a  comfort  also.  I  spoke  of  Francesco's 
master  and  of  mine — of  Jesus — of  Him  who  made  us 
both!  of  Him  who  dwelleth  ever  with  us  on  our  al- 
tars." 

"You  speak  of  God,  my  child,"  said  the  lady,  rev- 


BLIND  AGNESE  25 

erently.  "He,  in  truth,  is  everywhere ;  but  you  cannot 
see  him  on  the  altar?" 

"No,  Signora ;  but  I  know  Him  to  be  there.  I  feel 
that  He  is  with  me,  and  I  with  Him,  and  so  I  do  not 
want  for  sight  to  see  Him." 

"And  is  there  nothing,  then,  you  want  to  see?"  The 
old  lady  went  on,  as  it  were,  in  her  own  despite,  for 
she  felt  all  the  danger  of  awakening  regret  in  so 
thoughtful  a  mind.  "The  light,  for  instance — the  glo- 
rious light  of  heaven,  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  million 
of  millions  of  stars  that  tell  us  of  the  glory  of  their 
maker?" 

"No,"  said  the  child,  "for  I  have  Him  who  made 
them,  and  He  Himself  is  the  'light  of  the  world.' " 

"Or  the  beautiful  face  of  nature,  the  deep  valley, 
the  mighty  mountain,  or  mountain  of  mountains — 
your  own  Vesuvius?" 

"I  have  him,"  said  the  child,  in  an  untroubled  voice, 
"and  He  is  mightier  than  all  His  works." 

"Or  the  buildings  of  your  city,  the  stately  palaces, 
the  sainted  temples?  Yonder  little  church,  for  in- 
stance, which  we  have  just  quitted,  and  which  might 
have  been  the  work  of  angels  or  of  fairies,  it  is  so 
spirit-like  and  full  of  grace?" 

"These  are  but  the  creations  of  man,  Signora;"  and 
there  was  a  shade  of  grave  rebuke  in  Agnese's  voice; 
"and  if  I  long  not  to  behold  His  works,  shall  I  sigh  to 
look  upon  His  creatures'?" 

"Well,  Agnese,  the  flowers,  at  least,  are  His  own 
lovely  work  of  love;  tell  me,  do  you  not  sometimes 
sigh  to  gaze  upon  the  flowers,  which  He  has  scattered 
so  profusely  over  this  soft,  southern  land?  Never 


26  BLIND  AGNESE 

have  I  walked  before  among  such  flowers,  with  their 
velvet-like  richness  of  touch  and  hue,  and  their  per- 
fume, which  comes  over  one's  senses  like  a  dream  of 
beauty." 

'They  are  soft  to  the  touch,  and  sweet  to  the 
senses,"  Agnese  answered,  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"And  he  was  called  the  'flower  of  the  root  of  Jesse.' 
So  they  must  be  precious  things,  those  flowers!  But 
yet,"  she  added,  in  an  assured  and  earnest  tone,  "I 
do  not  regard  them,  for  I  have  Him,  and  He  made 
them,  and,  beautiful  as  they  are,  He  must  be  a  thou- 
sand million  of  times  more  beautiful  than  they  are." 

"Happy  child,"  said  the  lady,  sadly.  "He  hath,  in- 
deed, robbed  you  of  your  sorrow ;  would  that  I  knew 
where  you  had  found  Him,  that  I  might  go  and  seek 
Him  also." 

"Do  you  not  know  where  to  find  Him  ?"  said  Agnese 
in  great  surprise.  "He  is  ever  on  the  altar;  if  you 
are  in  sorrow,  go  and  seek  Him  there,  and  He  will 
speak  sweet  comfort  to  your  soul." 

"Tell  me,  fair  child,  who  has  taught  you  to  think 
and  speak  in  this  manner?" 

"Francesco,  Signora ;  he  has  taught  me  to  know  and 
love  Jesus  on  the  altar." 

The  lady  did  not  answer.  Something  in  the  child's 
voice  and  manner  had  recalled  sad  memories  to  her 
mind,  and  her  tears  were  falling  fast,  nor  did  she  seek 
to  check  them  until  they  had  nearly  gained  the  foun- 
tain and  the  grove  to  which  their  footsteps  were 
directed.  There  they  found  Agnese's  grandmother, 
plying  her  usual  trade  before  a  table,  made  very  gay 
to  look  at, -by  the  four  painted  stakes,  placed  one  at 


BLIND  AGNESE  27 

every  corner,  and  decorated  with  images  of  saints, 
coloured  flags,  and  bunches  of  lemons,  and  bouquets 
of  flowers,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ten  little  lamps  al- 
ready gleaming  like  fire-flies  among  the  shadows  of 
the  trees.  A  cask,  in  the  form  of  a  drum,  filled  with 
clear  ice,  and  water  from  the  fountain,  was  placed  on 
this  table,  which  likewise  displayed  an  abundance  of 
clean  glasses  and  lemons  for  the  preparation  of  iced 
lemonade. 

Many  and  grateful  were  the  thanks  of  the  old  dame 
to  the  good  Samaritan,  who  had  brought  her  back  her 
blind  one;  and  having  accepted  a  glass  of  iced  water, 
and  pressed  an  alms  into  the  unwilling  hand  of  Agnese, 
Lady  Oranmore  stepped  into  her  carriage,  which  had 
followed  her  from  the  church,  promising  herself,  how- 
ever, to  return  the  very  next  day,  and  renew  her  ac- 
quaintance with  the  fair  child  of  the  fountain. 

How  often,  during  her  drive  back  to  Naples,  did 
the  words  of  Agnese  recur  to  her  memory — "If  you 
are  in  sorrow,  go  and  seek  Him  on  the  altar,  and  He 
will  speak  sweet  comfort  to  your  soul."  She  was  not 
a  Catholic,  that  old  lady,  or  she  would  have  better 
understood  the  deep  meaning  of  these  simple  words — 
the  holy  truth,  that  He,  whose  dwelling  was  in  the 
bosom  of  His  Father,  could  yet  find  no  peace  for  His 
loving  heart,  until  He  had  made  Himself  a  home 
among  the  children  of  men,  until  He  had  imparted 
unto  them  the  sweetness  of  that  humanity,  all  the  bit- 
terness of  which  He  had  reserved  for  Himself.  And 
so  He  came  to  us,  the  Virgin's  child,  the  meek  and 
lowly  Jesus  to  dwell  for  ever  with  us  in  the  sacrament 
of  His  love,  never  again  to  be  absent,  even  for  an 


28  BLIND  AGNESE 

hour,  from  the  world  of  His  redemption  and  especial 
predilection — ever  living  for  us,  with  us,  and  among 
us.  In  the  noon-tide  glare,  in  the  midnight  gloom — 
in  the  crowded  city,  and  in  the  lonely  country's  most 
lonely  places,  still  and  for  ever  to  be  found  upon  our 
altars,  from  thence  giving  rest  to  the  weary,  comfort 
to  the  afflicted,  calmer  and  holier  joy  to  the  glad  of 
heart;  leaving  it  to  no  creature  of  earth  to  say  that 
he  had  sought  his  Lord  and  had  not  found  Him,  or 
that  he  had  been  near  Him,  and  had  not  been  invited 
to  the  embraces  of  His  love.  Happy  they  who  seek 
the  invitation,  and  happier  they  who  hear  it  and  obey 
it,  by  dwelling,  if  not  always  in  the  body,  at  least  al- 
ways in  spirit  and  desire,  beneath  the  shadow  of  His 
altar.  These  are  they  of  whom  it  has  been  truly  said, 
"They  shall  eat  the  honey  with  the  honeycomb,"  for 
they  shall  taste  and  see  that  the  Lord  is  sweet;  they 
shall  find  the  tears  wiped  away  from  off  their  faces; 
they  shall  draw  water  in  joy  from  the  fountains  of 
the  Saviour;  and  they  shall  testify  to  the  truth  of  the 
promise  made  to  us  by  His  own  living  and  most  sacred 
lips,  a  promise  only  not  oftener  fulfilled  in  ourselves, 
because  we  seek  not  its  proper  fulfillment  in  Him. 

"Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  burdened, 
and  I  will  refresh  you." 


CHAPTER  II 

Sign  the  cross,  and  strike  the  breast, 

Banish  looks   of   lightsome  cheer — 
Heaven's  monarch,  mortal's  guest — 

Lo!  our  Jesus  draweth  near. 

One  thou  lovest,  Lord,  is  ill, 

As  of  old,  is  now  the  tiding, 
And,  as  then,  it  finds  him  still, 

In  His  love  that  call  abiding. 

"Sign  the  cross,   and  strike   the  breast,"  etc. 

Quicker  ever  than  He  went 

To  the  loved  of  Bethany, 
Now  with  thoughts  as  fondly  bent 

On  this  loved  one,  cometh  He. 

"Sign  the  cross,   and   strike  the  breast,"   etc. 

If  His  own  no  longer  flow, 

Still  He  dries  the  sinner's  tears; 
If  no  grief  is  on  the  brow, 

Still  its  look  of  love  it  wears. 

"Sign  the  cross,  and  strike  the  breast,"  etc. 

If  no  more  from  out  the  grave 

He  doth  bid  the  dead  arise, 
Still,  the  sinful  soul  to  save, 

On  the  sinner's  heart  He  lies. 

"Sign  the  cross,  and  strike  the  breast,"  etc. 

Bids  him  put  aside  his  fear, 

Bids  his  trembling  all  to  cease, 
Whispers  in  his  dying  ear, 
Words  of  pardon,  hope,  and  peace. 

"Sign  the  cross,  and  strike  the  breast,"  etc. 
29 


30  BLIND  AGNESE 

Jesu,  when  my  hour  is  nigh, 

Let  me  rest  thy  arms  within, 
Thus  to  die  is  not  to  die, 

'Tis  but  to  quit  a  world  of  sin. 

Sign  the  cross,  and  strike  the  breast, 
Banish  looks  of   lightsome  cheer; 

Heaven's  monarch,  mortal's  guest — 
Lo!  our  Jesus  draweth  near. 

OEATED  in  her  balcony,  amid  orange  trees  and 
myrtles,  and  all  the  sweet  growth  of  that  southern 
clime,  Lady  Oranmore  listened  to  the  soft  voices  of 
the  singers  as  they  slowly  approached  the  Palazzo 
where  she  dwelt.  It  was  midnight,  but  she  had  not 
been  able  to  repose  as  yet,  her  thoughts  were  running 
on  the  blind  Agnese;  and  the  look  of  inexpressible 
peace,  which  could  give  such  beauty  to  those  pallid 
features,  haunted  her  still,  and  the  inexpressible  de- 
votion of  that  voice,  as  once  and  once  only  it  had 
reverently  pronounced  the  name  of  Jesus,  still  seemed 
to  ring  in  her  ears. 

Over  and  over  again  she  asked  herself  why  it  was 
that  she  knelt  with  an  unsatisfied  heart  and  a  cold 
and  hungry  spirit  before  the  selfsame  altar  where  this 
poor  child  had  but  to  come  to  be  replenished  with  de- 
light. Yes,  and  Lady  Oranmore  could  not  deny  it  to 
herself,  with  heavenly  wisdom  also — the  wisdom  so 
often  withheld  from  the  proud,  to  be  lavishly  be- 
stowed upon  the  humble  and  the  poor.  Alas!  like 
Pilate,  Lady  Oranmore  asked  what  is  truth,  and,  like 
him,  she  waited  not  the  answer,  but,  impatient  of  her 
own  feverish  fancies  and  sleepless  couch,  she  rose, 
dressed  herself  hastily,  as  I  have  already  said,  and 


BLIND  AGNESE  31 

stepped  out  upon  the  balcony.  It  was  a  lovely  night, 
such  a  night  as  that  on  which  the  prophet  looked, 
when  he  declared  that  "the  heavens  show  forth  the 
glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  declareth  the  work 
of  His  hands."  The  deep  blue  sky  of  Italy  seemed 
to  grow  deeper  and  deeper  still,  as  Lady  Oranmore 
gazed  upon  it,  until  she  felt  as  if  she  were  looking 
into  it,  and  through  it,  and  beyond  it,  and  from  out  of 
this  azure  setting  the  stars  met  her  glances  with  looks 
so  conscious  and  so  calm,  that  she  could  almost  have 
persuaded  herself  theirs  was  the  light  of  angel  eyes, 
not  merely  watching  over  a  sleeping  world,  but  en- 
gaged in  penetrating  into  the  hidden  depths  of  her 
soul,  and  reading  all  its  secrets.  The  calm  night  air 
soon  soothed  the  perturbation  of  her  spirits,  and  she 
was  fast  sinking  into  a  sort  of  dreamy  calm  when 
the  first  notes  of  the  Hymn  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
fell  on  her  ears ;  and  here  a  door  and  there  a  window 
opening,  told  how  all  the  people  were  now  astir,  some 
going  forth  to  join  in  the  procession,  others  content 
to  sit  in  their  balconies,  and  mingle  their  voices  with 
the  burden  of  the  song.  The  voices  of  the  singers 
were  sweet  and  true,  and  the  air  they  sang  most 
touching;  and  ever  and  anon  the  tinkling  of  the  little 
bells,  which  announced  the  presence  of  the  Blessed 
Sacrament,  filled  the  air  with  a  melody  so  spirit-like 
and  sweet,  one  might  have  fancied  them  rung  by  the 
hands  of  the  angels  who  invisibly  crowded  round  the 
sacramental  presence  of  their  Lord.  Lady  Oran- 
more looked  and  listened  like  one  entranced.  Holy 
stars,  and  silver  moon,  and  a  perfume-breathing  of 
flowers,  and  a  calm  of  sea,  and  hush  of  earth,  the 


32  BLIND  AGNESE 

silent  heavens  and  the  voices  of  His  adoring  creatures, 
all  seemed  mingling  together  to  do  Him  honour  in 
the  lowly  state  in  which  His  love  had  laid  Him.  For 
one  brief  moment,  the  very  sweetness  of  Jesus  Him- 
self seemed  to  fill  her  bosom,  and  she  believed  in  His 
sacramental  presence  with  a  faith  as  firm  as  the  most 
undoubting  of  His  worshippers.  Tears  gushed  into 
her  eyes,  she  clasped  her  hands,  and  exclaimed  aloud, 
unconscious  that  she  was  repeating  the  very  words  of 
the  hymn  to  which  she  had  been  listening — "Oh,  so 
to  die  is  not  to  die.  Good  God!  To  go  to  thee  with 
Jesus  in  my  bosom!"  By  this  time  tapers  began  to 
burn  in  every  balcony,  light  flew,  as  if  by  some  in- 
visible communication,  from  house  to  house,  from 
window  to  window,  and  the  street,  which  a  few  min- 
utes before  had  been  as  dark  as  night  and  the  tall 
shadows  of  buildings  could  make  it,  became  bright 
and  glittering,  as  though  a  shower  of  stars  had  sud- 
denly descended  upon  its  gloomy  places.  Not  a  win- 
dow without  its  light — not  a  black  speck  left  to  mar 
the  effect  of  the  general  illumination.  The  mighty 
faith  of  the  people  stirred  the  heart  of  the  lady  to  a 
yet  higher  pitch  of  enthusiasm,  and,  by  an  impulse  for 
which  she  never  afterwards  could  account,  she  stepped 
back  into  her  chamber,  lighted  a  taper  at  the  night 
lamp  left  burning  there,  and,  setting  it  among  the 
flowers  of  the  balcony,  knelt  down  to  worship  Jesus 
as  he  passed.  The  procession  was  almost  beneath  her 
window  as  she  did  so.  Surrounded  by  a  guard  of 
honour,  the  priest  who  bore  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
walked  beneath  the  canopy,  of  which  the  silver  bells 
announced  his  coming  to  the  people,  and  among  his 


BLIND  AGNESE  33 

immediate  assistants,  some  carried  banners  and 
crosses,  and  others  sent  up  clouds  of  incense  from 
their  silver  censers,  while  the  people  followed,  some 
near  and  some  at  a  little  distance,  some  with  the  in- 
tention of  attending  to  the  dwelling  of  the  dying  per- 
son, but  the  greater  number  merely  dropping  into  the 
procession,  and,  after  walking  with  it  for  a  short 
space,  returning  to  their  own  homes.  Lady  Oran- 
more  thought  of  his  entrance  into  the  cities  of  Judea, 
and  of  His  meek  and  holy  bearing,  and  of  the  crowds 
that  gave  Him  welcome,  and  of  the  little  children  who 
sang  Hosannahs,  proclaiming  Him  their  Saviour — 
and,  won  by  the  selfsame  spirit  of  love  from  whence 
they  took  their  inspiration,  for  a  little  while  she  be- 
lieved as  they  did.  But  her  faith,  alas,  like  theirs, 
was  fleeting,  and  as  He  who  had  inspired  it  passed 
slowly  out  of  sight,  it  would,  perhaps,  have  also  faded 
from  her  bosom  had  not  her  eyes  fallen  upon  the  form 
of  a  child — of  Blind  Agnese — for  what  child  save 
Blind  Agnese  could  have  been  found  with  courage  or 
devotion  to  wander  through  the  streets  at  that  late 
hour?  Lady  Oranmore  was  neither  young  nor  ac- 
tive, and,  though  well  acquainted  with  Naples,  she 
was  timid,  as  people  often  are  in  a  strange  and 
crowded  city.  Even  in  the  broad  daylight  she  had 
never  ventured  in  the  streets  alone,  yet  now  she  could 
not  resist  the  impulse  which  prompted  her  to  cast  a 
large  mantle  over  her  shoulders,  to  quit  the  bal- 
cony, descend  the  stairs,  and  join  the  procession  side 
by  side  with  the  Little  Spouse  of  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment. 

The  wide  street  and  the  open  'square  were  soon  left 


34  BLIND  AGNESE 

behind,  and  poorer  grew  the  aspect  of  the  houses,  and 
poorer  still  the  class  of  persons  who  joined  in  the 
procession  as  it  passed  along;  but  still  the  harmony 
of  the  hymn  was  heard,  new  voices  linking  themselves 
on  to  the  silver  chain,  just  where  the  old  ones  dropped 
it ;  and  still  the  streets,  however  dark  and  squalid  they 
might  have  been  before,  put  on  a  robe  of  light  and 
brightness  to  welcome  its  approach.  At  length  it 
paused  in  one  of  the  dirtiest  of  those  dirty  streets,  of 
which  there  is  no  lack  at  Naples.  The  song  was 
hushed,  the  tinkling  of  the  bells  was  heard  no  more, 
and  in  their  stead  arose  the  low  murmur  of  prayer, 
as  the  people  fell  on  their  knees  in  all  the  mud  and 
filth  of  that  most  filthy  pavement.  They  thought  not 
of  these  things,  however,  for  they  were  in  the  presence 
of  Him  before  whom  cherubim  and  seraphim  do  veil 
their  faces ;  and  how  should  dainty  thought  and  earthly 
niceties  intrude  upon  their  minds?  It  was  in  truth 
to  no  kingly  palace,  to  no  lordly  possessor  of  the 
earth,  that  the  King  of  kings  had  come  in  person. 
The  dwelling  into  which  the  priest  now  entered  could 
only  have  been  willingly  chosen  by  voluntary  pov- 
erty, or  unwillingly  forced  upon  that  which  was  in- 
voluntary. At  another  time,  Lady  Oranmore  might 
have  trembled  to  find  herself  alone  and  unattended  in 
such  a  place,  at  such  an  hour;  but  now,  something 
which  was  neither  curiosity,  nor  yet  devotion,  nor  yet 
a  settled  purpose  of  any  kind,  seemed  to  draw  her 
footsteps  onward.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  obeying 
an  invisible  spirit,  and  as  if  that  spirit  resided  in 
the  person  of  Agnese;  and  acting  still  upon  the  same 
irresistible  impulse,  when  the  child  arose  and  followed 


BLIND  AGNESE  35 

the  priest  into  the  house,  she  forgot  her  native  shyness, 
and  stepped  over  the  threshold  with  her. 

In  a  miserable  room,  on  a  miserable  bed — if,  indeed, 
the  heap  of  reeds  and  Indian  straw  could  be  so  en- 
titled— the  stricken  deer  of  the  flock  was  lying.  It 
was  no  sudden  accident  or  sickness  which  had  brought 
her  there.  The  wasted  form,  the  sunken  cheek,  the 
hectic  colour,  all  told  of  the  slow  progress  of  that 
disease  which  inch  by  inch  bears  its  victim  to  the 
tomb. 

Confession  had  probably  gone  before;  all  the  his- 
tory of  that  young  life  had  been  told  to  God  and  to 
his  minister,  and  the  words  of  peace  and  pardon  had 
been  poured  into  her  ear — the  "go  in  peace"  of  the 
very  Saviour,  who  now  had  come  in  person  to  fill  her 
heart  with  hope  and  her  soul  with  joy;  and  hope,  and 
joy,  and  heaven  itself  were  all  so  vividly  impressed 
upon  her  pallid  face,  that  but  for  the  poverty  in  which 
she  was  enveloped,  and  the  lights  around  her  bed,  and 
the  tears  of  the  widowed  woman  (so  soon  to  be  a 
childless  mother)  who  knelt  beside  her,  she  might  have 
seemed  to  the  excited  imagination  of  Lady  Oranmore 
not  a  dying  woman,  but  an  angel — not  a  spirit  ascend- 
ing to  the  sky,  but  one  descended  thence,  to  speak  by 
her  looks  of  the  happiness  of  heaven.  She  felt  all  this, 
for  she  had  hardly  time  to  think  it,  or  to  place  herself 
on  her  knees  in  a  distant  corner,  where  she  could  see 
without  being  seen,  before  the  voice  of  the  priest  was 
heard,  and  the  mother  hushed  her  sobs,  and  the  girl 
seemed  to  try  and  still  her  laboured  breathing,  in  order 
to  catch  the  import  of  his  words.  It  was  the  Sacra- 
ment of  Extreme  Unction  which  he  was  about  to  ad- 


36  BLIND  AGNESE 

minister,  and  Lady  Oranmore  soon  became  absorbed 
in  her  deep  attention  to  that  most  touching  ritual,  by 
which  the  Catholic  Church  invokes  the  pardon  of  an 
offended  God  upon  every  faculty  of  the  dying  person. 
The  service  was  in  Latin,  but  the  priest  translated 
each  separate  invocation  into  Italian,  which  every  one 
present  understood,  and  none  seemed  more  entirely  to 
comprehend,  or  more  fully  to  enter  into  their  spirit 
and  their  meaning  than  the  invalid  herself.  She  an- 
swered every  prayer  as  well  as  her  failing  voice  would 
let  her,  holding  out  her  hands  spontaneously,  and  it 
almost  seemed  joyfully,  for  the  sacred  oil  with  which 
they  were  to  be  anointed ;  and  when  the  last  and  most 
sacred  of  all  rites  was  given,  when  Jesus,  as  the  Viati- 
cum, the  companion  of  her  voyage,  descended  into  her 
bosom,  such  a  sweetness  stole  over  her  pale  face,  that 
Lady  Oranmore  felt  as  if  she  could  have  gazed  upon 
her  for  ever.  Never  before  had  she  seen  such  a  con- 
scious joy  in  the  hour  of  death.  But  the  priest  and 
the  people  were  all  departing,  one  or  two  sisters  of 
charity  alone  remaining  to  aid  the  mother  in  the  last 
offices  to  her  dying  child;  and  thus  reminded  that  she 
herself  was  only  an  intruder,  she  turned  to  look  for 
the  child  who  had  so  unconsciously  conducted  her 
hither.  Agnese  was  kneeling  a  little  way  apart,  in 
the  very  attitude  in  which  she  ever  knelt  before  the 
altar,  only  now  she  held  in  her  clasped  hands  the 
string  by  which  her  dog  was  fastened,  while  the  animal 
itself  lay  at  her  feet  still  and  quiet,  as  if  well  accus- 
tomed to  such  scenes,  and  possessed  of  an  instinctive 
consciousness  of  their  awful  nature.  In  a  few  minutes 
more,  however,  the  child  arose,  laid  a  piece  of  silver 


BLIND  AGNESE  37 

on  the  pillow  of  the  invalid,  and  glided  softly  to  the 
open  door.  Lady  Oranmore  followed  her  directly  into 
the  open  street,  which,  lately  so  full  of  light  and 
people,  was  now  as  dark  and  silent  as  the  grave ;  and 
she  could  not  help  shuddering  at  the  idea  of  this  poor 
child,  whose  misfortune  would  have  rendered  her  so 
peculiarly  helpless  in  the  hour  of  danger  walking  alone 
at  that  late  hour  through  the  deserted  city.  Suddenly 
as  this  thought  crossed  her  mind,  she  resolved  to  fol- 
low and  see  her  to  her  home;  but  she  did  not  tell 
Agnese  of  her  intention,  nor  did  she  even  acquaint 
her  with  her  presence,  for  she  had  a  sort  of  desire 
to  accompany  her  without  her  knowledge,  and 
to  behold  her  in  a  place  where  she  could  not 
be  supposed  to  be  influenced  by  the  presence  of 
strangers. 

In  taking  this  resolution,  no  thought  or  fear  of 
personal  annoyance  presented  itself  to  her.  She  was 
little  in  the  habit  of  calculating  consequences,  and  at 
this  moment  was  wrought  up  to  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm 
which  carried  her  so  far  beyond  the  ordinary  rules  of 
prudence,  that  she  ever  afterwards  felt  as  if  through- 
out the  night  she  had  been  acting  in  a  dream.  With 
all  her  courage,  however,  perhaps  she  was  not  sorry  to 
find  that  Agnese's  route,  traced  out  for  her  with  un- 
erring certainty  by  Perletta,  brought  her  to  a  part  of 
Naples  with  which  she  herself  was  perfectly  ac- 
quainted ;  so  it  was  with  more  of  curiosity  than  of  any 
other  feeling  that  she  followed  the  child  into  one  of 
the  poorest  houses  of  the  poorest  streets  of  the  city, 
and  up  flight  after  flight  of  stairs,  into  a  small  close 
room,  where,  by  the  light  just  dawning  in  the  east, 


38  BLIND  AGNESE 

she  could  dimly  discern  a  table  and  a  chair,  and  in  one 
corner  something  like  a  bed,  with  a  human  figure 
stretched  upon  it. 

"Agnese,"  said  a  voice  from  beneath  the  coverlet, 
which  was  unmistakably  that  of  the  old  dame  of  the 
fountain. 

"Grandmother!"  replied  the  child,  kneeling  by  the 
bed. 

"Where  have  you  been,  my  child?" 

"I  have  been  with  Him,  mother;  He  went  to  visit 
Sister  Rosalie." 

"Sister  Rosalie,  who  is  Sister  Rosalie,  Agnese?" 

"She  is  of  the  Order  of  Penance  of  the  Blessed 
Father  St.  Francis.  All  Naples  know  her  well,  mother. 
She  lived  among  the  poor,  and  served  them  as  she 
would  have  served  Jesus  himself  had  she  lived  in  the 
.days  of  Magdalen  and  Martha." 

"Mother,"  said  Agnese  again,  after  a  little  pause, 
"when  I  heard  His  bell,  I  guessed  it  was  to  the  poor 
He  was  going ;  so  I  took  the  piece  of  money  which  the 
lady  gave  me,  for  Rosalie  is  very  poor,  and  the  little 
she  has  she  gives  it  to  those  who  are  even  pporer  than 
she  is." 

"It  is  well,  my  child ;  you  did  right.  Now,  come  to 
bed,  Agnese ;  it  is  time  you  took  some  rest." 

"Say  rather  it  is  time  to  rise,  mother,  for  day  is 
dawning  in  the  east,  and  I  have  promised  Francesco 
to  bring  him  the  corporals  this  very  evening.  Sleep 
still,  dear  mother.  I  will  call  you  when  your  hour 
arrives." 

The  old  woman  made  no  answer — she  was  already 
fast  asleep,  and  then  Agnese  set  about  her  task  with 


BLIND  AGNESE  39 

as  much  precision  as  if  in  perfect  possession  of  her 
eyesight. 

Lady  Oranmore  watched  her  for  a  few  minutes; 
but  fearing  the  old  woman  might  awaken  and  dis- 
cover her  at  her  post,  she  at  last  reluctantly  withdrew. 
The  Church  bells  were  all  ringing,  and  the  people 
everywhere  astir  in  the  city  by  the  time  she  gained 
her  Palazzo,  and,  feeling  far  too  excited  for  sleep,  she 
ordered  her  carriage,  and  drove  at  once  to  the  Church 
of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  with  the  intention  of  ques- 
tioning Francesco  concerning  his  blind  protege.  For 
this  purpose  she  thought  it  best  to  go  at  once  to  the 
door  by  which  she  had  seen  him  enter  the  Church  in 
his  search  for  Agnese;  but  it  must  be  confessed  that 
when  he  himself  opened  it  to  her  little  tap  for  admit- 
tance, she  felt  rather  embarrassed  how  to  begin  the 
conversation.  After  the  awkward  pause  of  a  moment, 
however,  she  succeeded  in  shaking  off  her  little  hesi- 
tation, and  in  saying,  with  all  the  frankness  so  natural 
to  her — 'You  will  think  me  mad,  I  suppose,  if  I  tell 
you  I  have  come  to  make  inquiries  about  the  blind 
child  I  saw  you  speaking  to  yesterday.  She  has  in- 
terested me  most  strangely." 

"The  signora's  madness  is  not  so  strange  to  me," 
said  the  old  man,  with  a  smile,  "for  it  is  one  in  which 
I  share." 

"But  who  is  she — what  is  she — what  makes  her  so 
unlike  other  children  of  her  age?" 

"Who  is  she?  She  is  Blind  Agnese.  What  is  she? 
A  little  beggar-girl — that  is  her  only  dignity,  except 
when  children  call  her,  in  sport,  'the  Little  Spouse  of 
the  Blessed  Sacrament,'  so  devoted  is  she  to  this 


40  BLIND  AGNESE 

mystery  of  love.  And  what  makes  her  so  unlike  other 
children?  Even  He  himself  who  loves  them  all  in- 
deed, but  who  seems  to  have  called  this  one  more 
especially  to  live  at  His  feet." 

"I  can  comprehend  this  child  being  very  dear  to 
God,  but  I  cannot  fathom  the  mystery  of  such  deep 
thoughtfulness  in  one  so  young." 

"That  is  as  much  as  to  say  we  cannot  fathom  the 
mystery  of  His  deep  love  for  his  creatures.  But  if 
the  signora  will  believe  me,  there  are  many  little  ones 
full  as  thoughtful  as  Agnese,  only  we  do  not  often  see 
them,  for  they  perish  early — young  flowers  they  are, 
forced  into  premature  bloom,  to  be  cast  on 
the  path  of  the  Lamb  in  heaven.  And  then," 
yet  more  earnestly  the  old  man  went  on — "and 
then,  see  you  not,  lady,  that  God  is  so  good!  He 
seldom  denies  one  gift  without  bestowing  a  greater 
in  its  place,  and  if  Agnese  is  blind,  He  has  yet  given 
her  to  behold  her  Saviour  in  His  own  Sacrament  of 
Love,  by  a  clearness  of  spiritual  perception  which  the 
saints  might  even  envy." 

"And  has  she  been  ever  thus?"  returned  Lady 
Oranmore.  " Was  she  never  a  child  like  the  rest  ?  Or 
is  this  a  second  nature,  the  offspring  of  her  misfor- 
tune?" 

"She  has  been  thus  ever  since  I  have  known  her,  but 
possibly  it  is  a  mixture  of  nature  and  of  grace.  There 
was  a  calm  and  thoughtful  nature  to  begin  with,  and 
the  grace  of  God  took  that  nature  and  replenished  it 
with  sweetness." 

The  old  man  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  his  coun- 
tenance overflowing  with  the  very  expression  of  sweet- 


BLIND  AGNESE  41 

ness  of  which  he  spoke.  Lady  Oranmore  began  to 
think  him  almost  as  interesting,  and  quite  as  incom- 
prehensible as  Agnese  herself.  She  had  yet  to  learn 
the  spirit  of  joy  which  Jesus  pours  out  upon  the  soul 
that  touches  Him,  as  it  were,  in  the  Sacrament  of  His 
Love. 

"Tell  me  how  you  first  became  acquainted  with  her, 
for  you  say,  'since  I  have  known  her/  "  she  said. 

"It  was  about  this  time  last  year.  I  had  some  cor- 
porals and  other  linen  to  be  washed  for  the  altar,  and 
I  went  into  the  church  to  seek  for  some  child  who 
might  do  it" — 

"Child!"  echoed  Lady  Oranmore;  "I  should  have 
thought  an  older  person  better  suited  to  the  task." 

"It  is  only  a  fancy  of  my  own.  The  signora  must 
understand  I  always  give  them  to  a  young  child  to 
wash.  It  seems  to  me  He  will  be  best  pleased  after- 
wards to  repose  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  upon  linen 
which  only  such  innocent  hands  have  touched.  And 
then,  He  so  loved  the  little  ones — the  sweet  and  loving 
Jesus !  Surely  the  signora  has  not  forgotten  how  He 
bade  them  to  approach,  and  would  not  have  them  to  be 
forbidden,  seeing  that  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven." 

Lady  Oranmore  was  silent.  The  loving  faith  of  the 
old  man  seemed  to  rebuke  her  own  hardness  and  in- 
credulity of  heart.  And,  finding  she  made  no  answer, 
Francesco  proceeded — 

"As  the  signora  already  knows,  I  went  into  the 
church,  and  there,  just  as  she  beheld  her  yesterday, 
was  blind  Agnese  kneeling  before  the  altar.  It  seems 
to  be  her  natural  position.  I  never  saw  her  in  any 


42  BLIND  AGNESE 

other  at  her  prayers.  Not  liking  to  disturb  her  I  went 
back  again,  and  returning  in  half  an  hour  found  her 
still  in  the  same  attitude  of  devotion.  This  gave  me  a 
feeling  of  curious  interest  about  her,  so  I  waited  until 
she  rose  of  her  own  accord,  and  then  followed  her 
to  yonder  orange  grove,  and  to  the  fountain,  where  an 
old  woman  sits,  preparing  iced  water  and  lemonade. 
If  the  signora  ever  passes  that  way,  and  feels  weary 
with  her  walk,  she  will  find  a  chair  placed  pleasantly 
in  the  shade — the  perfume  of  the  orange  and  acacia 
will  revive  her — the  lemonade  is  excellent — and  then 
the  signora  will  be  doing  an  act  of  charity  to  blind 
Agnese,  for  that  old  woman  is  her  adopted  mother." 

"That  old  woman — I  know  her  well.  But  is  not, 
then,  Agnese  her  real  grandchild?" 

"God  only  knows  to  whom  the  orphan  really  be- 
longs. I  questioned  the  old  woman,  but  all  she  could 
tell  was,  that  she  herself  had  been  an  itinerant  water- 
seller,  and  that  one  day,  in  the  course  of  her  trade, 
she  had  offered  refreshments  to  a  foreign  lady  sitting 
at  the  corner  of  the  street,  with  an  infant  in  her  arms. 
The  lady  eagerly  accepted  a  glass  of  water,  but  before 
she  could  carry  it  to  her  lips  she  fainted  way.  Happily 
she  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  good  Samaritan. 
The  old  woman  had  her  carried  to  her  own  home; 
but  it  was  a  hopeless  case ;  the  poor  lady  was  dying." 

"Dying!"  said  Lady  Oranmore,  in  a  strange,  un- 
natural tone;  "of  what,  I  pray  you,  was  she  dying?" 

"Poor  lady,  of  hunger  in  the  first  instance,  but  I 
fear  of  a  broken  heart  in  the  second.  She  had  not 
long  to  live,  but  she  had  time  at  least  to  tell  her  story 
before  she  died." 


BLIND  AGNESE  43 

"And  that  story?" 

"It  was  a  sad  one.  She  was  not  of  Italy;  but  in 
the  distant  land  from  whence  she  came,  religion,  it 
seems,  is  made  a  subject  of  oppression,  and  he  who 
dares  to  worship  God  after  the  fashion  of  the  ancient 
Church  is  liable  to  fine,  imprisonment,  and  perhaps  to 
death." 

"No,  no,"  said  Lady  Oranmore,  "not  now  to  death, 
my  friend.  But  tell  me  of  the  lady." 

"Her  mother,  it  seems,  was  of  the  king's  religion, 
and  made  it  a  part  of  her  creed  to  hate  all  who  did  not 
think  fit  to  profess  it." 

"Was  it  thus  she  spoke  of  her  mother?"  Lady 
Oranmore  asked,  in  a  quick,  agitated  voice. 

"Alas,  no,  signora!  Her  words  were  full  of  ten- 
derness and  love.  It  was  I  who  spoke,  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  my  soul,  to  think  how  religion  could  ever  be 
made  a  source  of  disunion  between  child  and  parent." 

"Her  heart  was  always  loving  and  forgiving,"  said 
the  lady,  with  difficulty  repressing  her  tears. 

"The  signora  knew  her,  then?" 

"Go  on,  friend.    What  next?" 

"But  little.  Poor  lady !  her  story  was  as  short  as  it 
was  sad.  She  married  a  Catholic,  became  one,  and 
displeased  her  mother.  Still,  in  her  husband's  love, 
and  the  approval  of  her  own  conscience,  she  was  happy 
and  so  she  might  have  remained  to  this  very  hour, 
had  it  not  been  for  another  law  of  that  unhappy  land, 
by  which,  as  well  as  I  could  understand  it,  one  brother 
conforming  to  the  king's  religion  might  claim  the 
property  of  the  elder." 


44  BLIND  AGNESE 

Lady  Oranmore  groaned  aloud. 

"The  gentleman,"  pursued  Francesco,  "was  one  of 
three  brothers;  and  the  youngest  of  three  was  such  a 
one  as  I  have  described.  So  one  night,  just  after  the 
birth  of  the  poor,  blind  child,  he  came,  claimed  the 
property  as  his  own,  turned  the  sick  lady,  the  new- 
born babe,  and  another  child,  some  years  older,  out 
of  the  house,  and  sent  them  adrift  upon  the  world." 

Lady  Oranmore  now  sobbed  aloud. 

"The  signora  has  a  good  heart — she  can  feel  for  the 
distress  of  those  poor  outcasts  of  religion.  That  night 
they  took  refuge  in  the  house  of  a  poor  retainer,  who 
braved  the  anger  of  the  new  lord,  to  show  his  grati- 
tude to  the  old  one.  It  was  necessary,  however,  that 
they  should  fly  the  country ;  for  the  renegade,  not  con- 
tent with  reducing  his  brother  to  beggary,  had  likewise 
accused  him  of  malpractices  against  the  government. 
On  hearing  these  sad  tidings  the  mother  of  the  lady 
relented;  she  came  and  begged  her  daughter  to  reside 
with  her;  but  the  wife  felt  it  both  her  duty  and  her 
happiness  to  cleave  to  her  husband;  so  a  very  few 
hours  afterwards  they  were  together  on  the  wide 
waters  of  the  ocean,  seeking,  with  their  poor  blind 
child,  in  a  foreign  land,  the  protection  denied  them 
in  their  own." 

"And  the  eldest  child?"  asked  Lady  Oranmore, 
quickly. 

"Ah !"  said  Francesco,  shaking  his  head  sadly,  "that 
was  the  deepest  grief  of  all  I  think  to  the  dying  lady. 
She  could  not  tell  what  had  become  of  it.  It  must 
have  been  left  behind  in  the  hurry  and  confusion  of 
their  flight,  which,  of  course,  was  made  in  the  hours 


BLIND  AGNESE  45 

of  darkness.  But  unhappily  they  only  missed  it  on 
boarding  the  vessel  in  which  they  were  to  sail,  and  no 
entreaty  could  prevail  on  the  captain  to  delay  their 
voyage  even  for  an  hour.  Poor  mother!  She  never 
mentioned  her  lost  one  without  piteous  moans.  The 
murder  of  her  husband  scarce  seemed  to  have  made 
such  an  impression  on  her  mind." 

"Murdered!  Good  God!  was,  then,  poor  Edward 
murdered  ?" 

Francesco  looked  curiously  at  the  lady. 

"Ill  luck  attended  them  from  first  to  last,"  he  said. 
"They  were  scarcely  in  the  Italian  seas  before  their 
vessel  was  attacked  and  taken  by  pirates.  The  poor 
gentleman  fell  fighting  gallantly,  under  the  very  eyes 
of  his  unhappy  wife." 

"Alas !  alas !"  cried  Lady  Oranmore,  weeping ;  "my 
poor,  unhappy  May  a  prisoner  among  pirates !" 

"She  was  not  with  them  long.  Two  or  three  Nea- 
politan vessels  were  in  sight,  so  the  pirates  took  every- 
thing of  value  out  of  the  ship,  and  then  set  it  on  fire. 
The  lady  was  rescued  from  this  grave  of  mingled  fire 
and  water,  and  landed  on  the  coast,  from  whence, 
with  her  infant  in  her  arms,  she  begged  her  way  to 
Naples.  Happily  she  had  learned  our  language  from 
her  husband,  who  had  been  brought  up  among  us — 
education  being,  it  seems,  one  of  the  blessings  denied 
in  his  own  country  to  men  of  the  proscribed  religion ; 
and  yet,  starving,  heart-broken,  helpless,  and  a  stran- 
ger, how  she  managed  to  make  her  way  so  far  has 
ever  been  a  mystery  to  me." 

"Go  on,  old  man!  What  next?  I  conjure  you, 
what  next?" 


46  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Why,  finding  herself  so  near  to  death,  she  sent  for 
a  priest  to  make  her  peace  with  Heaven.  From  him 
she  received  all  the  last  rites  of  our  holy  religion.  The 
old  woman  has  often  told  me  since,  that  it  was  a  touch- 
ing sight  to  see;  for  nothing  would  content  her  but 
she  must  have  her  infant  in  her  arms  when  she 
received  Jesus  in  the  Viaticum;  so  I  always  think 
it  was  then  and  there  the  child  imbibed  her  strange 
love  for  Him  in  His  Sacrament  of  Love.  Surely  He 
passed  in  that  hour  from  the  bosom  of  the  mother 
into  the  heart  of  the  child!" 

"And  then  ?"  sobbed  Lady  Oranmore. 

"And  then,"  echoed  Francesco,  "she  died,  as  might 
have  been  expected.  In  peace  she  died.  God  stilled 
the  violence  of  the  storm  which  had  swept  her  young 
days  in  sorrow  to  the  grave.  To  his  fatherly  tender- 
ness she  consigned  her  child;  and  in  the  sacramental 
embraces  of  her  Saviour,  she  herself  went  down  to 
death,  amid  such  sentiments  of  love  and  peace  as  St. 
John  may  have  felt  when  resting  his  head  on  the  very 
bosom  of  his  living  Lord." 

"And  left  no  message — no  memorial?" 

"I  had  forgotten.  She  gave  a  packet  to  the  old 
water-vendor,  charging  her  to  keep  it  safely,  together 
with  the  signet-ring  which  she  wore  upon  her  finger. 
Poor  thing!  She  fancied  some  of  those  whom  she 
loved  so  well  might  one  day  come  and  seek  her  out, 
and  adopt  the  poor  blind  child  for  the  sake  of  its  dead 
mother.  She  was  mistaken,  however;  years  have 
passed  away,  and  Agnese  knows  no  other  relative  than 
the  poor  old  beggar-woman  whom  Providence  sent  as 
the  protectress  of  her  infancy." 


BLIND  AGNESE  47 

"Old  man !  old  man !"  cried  Lady  Oranmore,  wring- 
ing her  hands  in  anguish,  "accuse  me  not — I  am  the 
mother  of  that  unhappy  creature." 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  after  a  long  pause,  during 
which  her  sobs  and  tears  had  prevented  her  from  speak- 
ing ;  "I  quarreled  with  her  because  she  obeyed  the  dic- 
tates of  her  conscience,  and  became  a  Catholic;  and 
when  I  afterwards  beheld  her  driven  a  fugitive  from 
her  native  land,  I  stole  her  eldest  child,  intending  to 
undo  the  wrong  I  had  done  her,  by  making  her  the 
heiress  of  all  my  wealth.  I  had  not  had  the  child  a 
year  when  it  disappeared,  and  God  forgive  me  if  I  have 
done  him  wrong,  but  I  have  ever  believed  it  was  stolen 
by  its  unnatural  uncle,  and  perhaps  put  to  death,  lest 
it  should  hereafter  prove  a  troublesome  claimant  of 
his  wealth.  But  you  wrong  me  if  you  fancy  I  aban- 
doned my  unhappy  May,  without  inquiry,  to  her  fate. 
I  did  all  I  could  to  find  out  the  place  to  which  she  and 
her  husband  had  retreated.  You  see  yourself  this  was 
no  easy  matter,  and  it  was  all  the  more  difficult  because 
of  the  wars  which  so  often  interrupted  the  communica- 
tion between  the  countries.  Unable,  however,  any 
longer  to  endure  suspense,  I  have  spent  the  last  two 
years  wandering  about  Italy,  seeking  my  lost  child  from 
city  to  city,  but  until  this  day  without  the  slightest  clue 
to  the  right  one." 

Francesco  was  moved  at  her  evident  distress. 

"Providence  has  been  good  to  the  signora,"  he  ob- 
served at  length;  "he  has  been  over  her  in  all  her 
wanderings,  and  has  at  last  guided  her  to  the  very 
spot  where  she  may  recover  all  that  remains  to  her  of 
the  treasure  she  has  lost." 


48  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Old  man,"  cried  Lady  Oranmore,  dashing  away 
her  tears,  "where  is  this  precious  packet?  Come  with 
me,  I  pray  you — I  must  see  this  old  woman  this  very 
instant." 

"It  is  not  in  possession  of  the  old  woman,  signora; 
she  confided  it  to  the  care  of  the  Nuns  of  the  Perpetual 
Adoration;  their  convent  is  not  far  from  hence:  if 
the  signora  pleases,  I  will  gladly  guide  her  hither." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Lady  Oranmore,  lowering  her 
len  had  not  Francesco  given  her  the  support  of  his 
been  seated;  but  she  staggered,  and  would  have  fal- 
len, had  not  Francesco  given  her  the  support  of  his 
arm. 

"The  signora  is  not  well,"  he  observed;  "had  she 
not  better  defer  this  visit?" 

"No,  no,"  cried  Lady  Oranmore,  impetuously;  "any- 
thing is  better  than  suspense.  I  must  see  this  packet. 
Yet  surely,  I  have  not  a  doubt  Agnese  is  my  grand- 
child, the  child  of  my  poor,  unhappy  May." 

Francesco  was  well  known  at  the  convent,  and  the 
superioress  made  no  difficulty  in  submitting  the  packet 
and  the  signet-ring  to  Lady  Oranmore's  inspection; 
the  latter  gazed  at  it  long  and  silently,  through  her 
tears. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "it  is  her  own  handwriting, 
I  cannot  be  mistaken;  and  this  is  her  signet-ring, 
which  I  gave  her  myself  on  her  wedding-day.  I  must 
have  this  packet,"  she  said,  suddenly  looking  up;  "it 
will  be  needful,  should  the  identity  of  the  child  be  dis- 
puted by  her  relations." 

The  superioress  coloured;  but  no  human  respect 
could  deter  her  from  her  duty. 


BLIND  AGNESE  49 

"The  signora  must  pardon  me,"  she  said;  "I  doubt 
not  it  is  all  exactly  as  she  says,  but  the  packet  was  in- 
trusted to  my  care,  and  should  any  others  hereafter 
inquire  for  it,  how  am  I  to  show  that  I  was  justified 
in  delivering  it  now?" 

Lady  Oranmore  pulled  a  pocket-book  from  her 
bosom;  it  contained  a  lock  of  golden  hair,  and  a  few 
papers,  yellow  and  worn,  not  so  much  with  age  as  with 
constant  reading,  and  perh?ps  also  with  the  tears  of 
the  reader. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "is  all  that  remains  to  me  of  my 
ill-treated  child.  Never  does  this  packet  leave  my 
bosom;  sleeping  or  waking  it  is  ever  on  my  person. 
See  here  is  the  copy  of  her  marriage  certificate — the 
original,  I  doubt  not,  is  sealed  up  in  your  packet,  and 
here  is  a  long  letter  addressed  to  me,  on  her  change  of 
religion ;  it  is  in  English,  so  you  cannot  understand  it ; 
but  here  is  something  that  you  can — the  note  in  which 
she  informed  me  of  the  barbarous  conduct  of  her 
brother-in-law;  happily,  she  wrote  it  in  Italian,  that 
it  might  not  be  deciphered,  should  it  fall  into  hands 
for  which  it  was  not  intended.  Read  it,  read  it." 

The  superioress  took  the  note  from  the  lady's  trem- 
bling hand.  It  told,  in  sweet  and  touching  language,  the 
misfortunes  of  the  writer — of  her  husband's  flight,  a 
few  hours  after  the  birth  of  his  child  on  a  groundless 
suspicion  of  treason — of  the  rage  of  his  brother  at  the 
escape  of  his  victim — of  his  cruelty,  in  turning  her  and 
her  children  out  of  their  home — and  of  the  blindness 
which  had  fallen  on  the  youngest,  in  consequence  of 
cold  caught  by  the  sudden  exposure.  It  named  the 
place  to  which  she  had  retreated,  and  the  arrangements 


50  BLIND  AGNESE 

which  her  husband  was  making  for  their  flight  into 
Italy;  and  it  ended  by  a  moving  appeal  to  a  mother's 
love  for  an  only  child,  beseeching  her  to  pardon  and 
send  her  such  a  benediction  as,  had  she  been  dying, 
she  might  have  craved  at  her  hands. 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  this  note ; 
handwriting,  seal,  and  signature,  all  perfectly  agreed 
with  the  packet  already  in  the  possession  of  the  nun. 
She  no  longer  had  any  difficulty  in  surrendering  it  into 
the  hands  of  its  new  claimant.  Lady  Oranmore 
eagerly  broke  it  open  and  found  it  to  contain,  as  she 
had  expected,  the  marriage  certificate  of  May  Netter- 
ville,  with  the  copies  of  the  baptismal  register  of  both 
her  children,  as  well  as  the  beginning  of  the  Gospel 
of  St.  John,  which,  in  Ireland,  was  generally  sus- 
pended from  the  neck  of  a  new  baptized  infant. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Oranmore,  "it  is  sufficient;  this 
will  make  Agnese  the  heiress  of  her  mother's  fortune, 
and,  perhaps,  even  the  lawful  claimant  of  her  uncle's 
ill-gotten  wealth  should  the  man  ever  become  a  Ca- 
tholic again,  as,  in  a  fit  of  remorse,  I  sometimes 
imagine  he  will." 

She  spoke  in  English ;  the  superioress,  therefore,  did 
not  understand  her;  but  there  was  a  harshness  in  her 
tones  which  she  did  not  like;  and  how,  indeed,  could 
it  be  otherwise  ?  The  voice  is  so  often  an  index  to  the 
thoughts,  and  Lady  Oranmore's  were,  at  that  moment, 
less  with  her  unhappy  child  than  with  the  man  who 
had  done  her  wrong. 

"There  is  a  lock  of  hair  which  has  escaped  the 
signora's  observation,"  said  the  mild  religious,  hoping 
thus  to  recall  her  to  gentler  meditation. 


BLIND  AGNESE  51 

Lady  Oranmore  took  it  up ;  it  was  indeed  a  lock  of 
her  own  hair,  and  tears  gushed  in  torrents  from  her 
eyes  at  this  new  proof  of  the  enduring  affection  of  her 
child. 

The  superioress  saw  she  had  produced  the  wished- 
for  emotion,  and  she  went  on,  although  with  some  em- 
barrassment, caused  by  the  fear  of  giving  pain. 

"There  is  yet  another  visit  which,  perhaps,  the  sig- 
nora  would  like  to  make  before  she  leaves  the  con- 
vent." Lady  Oranmore  shuddered — she  felt  she  was 
summoned  to  the  grave  of  her  child. 

"It  is  true,"  she  stammered ;  "I  had  intended  to  have 
asked  it,  as  soon  as  I  could  find  courage." 

The  superioress  took  her  arm,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes they  were  in  the  little  cemetery  belonging  to  the 
convent — a  lovely  spot  it  was,  shut  out  from  all,  save 
the  eye  of  heaven,  by  the  tall  ilex  trees  with  which  it 
was  surrounded — each  little  lowly  grave  was  sur- 
mounted by  a  cross,  telling  of  the  hope  of  those  who 
slept  beneath,  but  bearing  neither  name  nor  date  upon 
it.  Name  and  date  were  unneeded  there,  for  the  slum- 
berers  in  that  sanctuary  of  peace  were  all  the  faithful 
spouses  of  a  crucified  God,  who  had  written  their 
names  in  the  palm  of  His  hand  from  the  day,  when,  by 
their  life-long  dedication  to  His  service,  they  had 
spiritually  died  for  His  love  to  the  world  and  them- 
selves. One  grave  there  was,  however,  which  was  not 
so  nameless — it  was  beautiful,  with  many  flowers 
springing  from  the  turf,  and  white  with  the  blossoms 
of  the  orange  and  the  myrtle,  which  had  fallen  in 
showers  upon  it ;  and  the  cross  above  it  bore  a  prayer 
for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  May  Netterville,  to  whose 


52  BLIND  AGNESE 

remains  the  rare  privilege  of  burial  within  the  ceme- 
tery of  the  convent  had  been  accorded,  because  (so 
the  inscription  stated)  she  had  died  far  from  her 
home  and  her  own  country,  poor,  and  alone,  and 
friendless,  in  a  foreign  land.  The  superioress  pointed 
to  the  name,  and  then,  with  intuitive  delicacy,  silently 
withdrew,  leaving  the  unhappy  mother  to  her  own  re- 
flections. Bitter,  very  bitter,  because  mingled  with 
much  of  self-reproach,  they  must  have  been,  and  when, 
half  an  hour  afterwards,  the  nun  returned,  she  saw 
that  Lady  Oranmore  had  been  weeping  violently,  and 
guessed,  from  the  disordered  state  of  her  dress  and 
bonnet,  that  she  must  have  been  prostrate  on  the 
grave  of  her  child. 

"Weep  not  for  her,  dearest  lady,"  said  the  nun, 
kindly;  "she  died  happily,  and  she  rests  in  peace. 
See,  we  chose  the  sweetest  spot  in  all  the  cemetery 
for  her,  just  beneath  the  shadow  of  this  beautiful 
myrtle  and  we  took  all  the  rarest  flowers  of  our  gar- 
den to  plant  them  on  her  grave.  We  did  not  then 
know  that  she  had  a  mother;  but  I  well  remember  it 
was  agreed  among  us,  to  receive  her  precious  remains 
with  all  the  love  and  reverence  a  mother's  heart  would 
have  been  consoled  to  offer,  or  see  offered  to  her 
child." 

Lady  Oranmore  could  not  speak  her  thanks  just 
then,  but,  before  she  left  the  convent,  she  pressed 
Mother  Matilda's  hand  to  her  lips,  and  besought  her, 
in  moving  terms,  to  continue  her  kind  care  of  the 
grave,  where  all  her  own  hopes  of  happiness  lay  buried. 
Then  with  a  myrtle  branch,  which  she  had  brought 


BLIND  AGNESE  53 

from  thence  in  her  hand,  she  left  the  convent,  leaning 
as  before  on  the  arm  of  the  good  Francesco. 

"And  now  where  does  the  signora  wish  to  go?"  he 
asked.  "She  is  tired,  and  would  she  not  like  to  go  to 
her  palazzo  for  a  little  repose?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Lady  Oranmore;  "I  can  have  no 
repose  until  I  have  embraced  my  grandchild.  Let  us 
seek  the  old  water-seller  at  her  stall." 

"Ah,  poor  Benita,"  said  Francesco,  shaking  his 
head,  "it  will  go  hard  with  her  to  lose  her  darling; 
I  greatly  doubt  she  will  break  her  old  heart." 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  so  to  grieve  her,"  said  Lady 
Oranmore,  compassionately.  "Think  you  she  would 
come  with  me  ?  I  would  gladly  give  her  a  home." 

"It  is  kind  of  the  signora  to  say  so — but  no — I 
think  Benita  would  not  be  happy  that  way  either ;  she 
is  too  old  for  new  friends  and  a  new  country.  Bet- 
ter to  promise  the  child  shall  sometimes  return  to 
visit  her." 

"That  I  can  readily  do,"  said  Lady  Oranmore,  sigh- 
ing, "for  I  also  have  an  attraction  in  the  grave  of  my 
child,  which  will  often  bring  me  to  revisit  this  land. 

"Yonder  is  the  orange  grove,  where  we  shall  find 
Benita  and  her  grandchild;  and  now  that  the  signora 
has  found  her  own,  may  heaven  prosper  her  as  she 
deals  rightly  and  fairly  by  the  child,  whom  Providence 
has  so  wonderfully  restored  to  her  care." 

Lady  Oranmore  changed  colour;  her  conscience 
told  her  she  was  neither  going  to  act  rightly  nor 
fairly  by  the  child  or  its  dead  mother;  for  well  she 
knew  that  mother's  heart,  and  she  felt  that  May  Net- 
terville  would  rather  have  bequeathed  her  little  one  to 


54  BLIND  AGNESE 

the  care  of  the  poorest  beggar  in  the  land  than  to 
the  guardianship  of  any  one  who  would  tamper  with 
her  faith. 

"But,  what  then?"  thought  Lady  Oranmore,  seek- 
ing her  excuse,  as  all  worldly-minded  people  do,  in 
the  expediency  of  the  thing.  "The  happiness  of  my 
poor  May  is  no  longer  dependent  on  the  religion  of 
the  child;  and,  besides,  she  did  not  bequeath  Agnese 
to  me.  I  found  her  for  myself;  and  this,  surely, 
gives  me  a  right  to  do  as  I  please;  and  if  I  do  not 
please  to  bring  her  up  a  Protestant,  she  will  not  only 
lose  her  chance  of  the  broad  lands  of  Netterville,  she 
will  even  forfeit  all  right  to  the  estate  she  ought  to 
inherit  from  me ;  for  the  next  in  succession  is  a  Prot- 
estant; and  I  know  him  too  well  to  suppose  he  will 
forego  his  legal  claim  from  any  sense  of  justice  to- 
wards me  or  mine." 

By  such  a  train  of  reasoning  as  this  she  contrived 
to  stifle  her  own  scruples  on  the  subject;  but  feeling 
instinctively  that  her  arguments  would  have  little 
weight  with  Francesco,  she  made  no  other  reply  to 
his  observations  than  the  very  significant  one  of 
quickening  her  footsteps  on  her  way  to  the  fountain. 

Three  days  afterwards  Agnese  knelt  for  the  last 
time  before  the  altar  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  in 
her  favourite  church,  and  Francesco  stood  beside  her ; 
she  was  in  tears,  for  she  had  that  morning  bid  adieu 
to  the  kind  old  woman  who,  for  so  many  years,  had 
cherished  her  as  her  own ;  and  now,  a  yet  more  cruel 
separation  was  awaiting  her,  in  her  parting  with  Fran- 
cesco, and  her  farewell  to  the  dear  little  church  where 
she  had  enjoyed  so  many  hours  of  calm  and  heavenly 


BLIND  AGNESE  55 

devotion.  Little  less  sorrowful  was  the  old  man  him- 
self. Something  there  was  in  Lady  Oranmore's  man- 
ner which  made  him  tremble  for  the  future  religion 
of  his  darling,  and  he  was  sorely  perplexed  how  to 
fortify  her  against  this  danger,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
to  avoid  filling  her  mind  with  fear  and  distrust  of  one, 
whom  it  would  be  her  duty  henceforth  to  reverence 
as  a  mother.  Small  time  had  he  to  revolve  the  matter 
in  his  own  mind,  for  a  servant  entered  the  church  to 
say,  that  the  travelling  carriage  was  at  the  door,  and 
her  ladyship  desired  the  presence  of  Agnese.  The 
child  arose;  but  Francesco  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  and  said  to  her,  in  a  voice  so  solemn  that 
she  was  startled  by  its  strangeness — 

"Tarry  yet  another  instant,  my  child,  and  listen  to 
my  words.  Agnese,  Jesus  is  on  that  altar:  He  is 
looking  on  you — listening  to  you;  and  if  ever,  on 
this  holy  spot,  you  have  promised  to  be  faithful  to 
Him  in  the  Sacrament  of  His  love,  renew  that  prom- 
ise now;  give  it  into  the  hands  and  heart  of  the  Im- 
maculate Mother,  and  she  will  place  it  for  you  in  the 
sacred  heart  of  her  Son." 

The  words  of  the  old  man  seemed  to  penetrate 
Agnese's  very  soul;  she  sank  on  her  knees,  and  said, 
in  a  low  but  earnest  voice — 

"I  do  promise  to  be  faithful  to  Jesus,  even  unto 
death." 

"Unto  death,"  repeated  Francesco;  "ay,  that  is  the 
right  word  for  the  child  of  martyrs.  Be  faithful  to 
Jesus  unto  death,  if  you  would  have  Him  faithful  to 
you  unto  life  everlasting.  Agnese,  they  may  seek  to 
make  you  desert  the  religion  in  which  He  alone  is  to 


56"  BLIND  AGNESE 

be  found ;  but  believe  them  not,  my  child.  Never  pray 
in  a  church  where  He  is  not." 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  child;  "but  how  am  I  to 
know  ?" 

With  something  almost  like  inspiration,  Francesco 
answered — 

"Ask  whether  a  lamp  is  burning  before  the  altar. 
If  there  is  not,  leave  the  church,  for  Jesus  is  neither 
in  it  nor  of  it.5' 

"I  will,  Francesco." 

"You  may  have  much  to  go  through  of  trouble  and 
persecution,  my  child.  But  here  is  a  picture;  it  is  of 
the  sacred  hearts  of  Jesus  and  of  Mary,  and  they  are 
wreathed  together  by  thorns." 

Agnese  kissed  and  placed  it  in  her  bosom. 

"Thorns,  Agnese,"  proceeded  Francesco,  "are  rude 
to  the  touch,  but  the  flowers  they  guard  are  always  the 
most  safe,  often  even  the  most  full  of  sweetness.  What 
heart  so  pure — what  heart  so  sweet — what  heart  so 
sorrowful  as  the  heart  of  the  Virgin  Mother  of  God. 
And  of  her  it  is  written,  'She  was  a  lily  among  thorns/ 
Think  of  this,  my  child ;  and  should  the  thorny  diadem 
ever  descend  upon  your  brow,  receive  it  lovingly  and 
thankfully,  seeing  it  will  make  you  resembling  to  her." 

There  was  so  sad  a  foreboding  in  Agnese's  heart, 
as  she  listened  to  these  words,  that,  in  her  fears  for 
the  future,  she  almost  forgot  her  present  sorrow, 
hardly  heard  the  remaining  words  of  Francesco,  was 
hardly  conscious  of  his  final  benediction,  although  she 
had  fallen  on  her  knees  to  receive  it,  hardly  even  felt 
Lady  Oranmore  embracing  her  as  the  child  of  her  lost 
May.  She  only  knew  distinctly  that  she  was  leaving 


BLIND  AGNESE  57 

the  land  where  Jesus  dwelt  upon  every  altar;  and, 
sinking  back  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  burying 
her  head  in  the  neck  of  Perletta,  the  Little  Spouse  of 
the  Blessed  Sacrament  murmured  through  her  tears — 
"Oh !  that  the  dove  would  descend  and  give  Him  to 
my  prayers !" 


CHAPTER  III 

!  that  the  dove  would  descend  and  give  Him  to 
my  prayers!"  It  was  Agnese's  last  prayer  on 
leaving  Naples;  it  was  her  first  on  arriving  at  Oran- 
more  Castle.  Her  troubles,  in  fact,  seemed  about  to 
commence  just  where  most  little  heroines  of  romance 
find  a  termination  to  theirs — that  is  to  say,  in  a  loving 
protectress  and  a  magnificent  home. 

Not  that  she  had  felt  positively  unhappy  during 
the  journey;  her  feelings  had  been  rather  stunned  than 
excited  by  the  sudden  change  in  her  position;  she 
could  not  perfectly  understand  its  reality,  or  compre- 
hend how  it  was,  that  a  few  days  before  she  had  been 
the  grandchild  of  a  poor  water  vendor,  and  now  stood 
precisely  in  the  same  relationship  to  a  lady  ranking 
among  the  richest  and  noblest  in  the  land.  Neither 
did  she  imagine  herself  so  entirely  separated,  as,  in 
truth,  she  was,  from  all  she  loved  and  cared  for 
upon  earth.  She  would  revisit  Italy,  so  Lady  Oran- 
more  had  promised  her  grandmother;  she  would  sit 
once  more  beside  Benita,  near  her  orange-shaded 
fountain;  she  would  kneel  with  Francesco  before  the 
altar  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament ;  and  then  nothing,  she 
knew,  could  separate  her  from  Jesus ;  His  altars  were 
everywhere,  and  He  was  everywhere  on  His  altars; 
and  never  did  she  pass  a  single  day  during  their  jour- 
ney without  seeking  Him  there. 

Long  before  Lady  Oranmore  or  her  attendants  were 
58 


BLIND  AGNESE  59 

awake,  Agnese  was  on  her  way  to  the  church  of  the 
town  or  village  in  which  they  had  spent  the  night. 
And  for  this  happiness  she  was  indebted  to  the  un- 
erring sagacity  of  Perletta,  who  knew  her  wishes 
quite  as  well  as  she  did  herself.  She  had  only  to  say, 
"Alia  chiesa,  alia  chiesa!"  and  Perletta  looked  to  the 
right  and  looked  to  the  left,  pricked  up  her  ears,  and 
set  off  directly  in  the  direction  in  which  the  church 
bells  were  ringing,  nor  did  she  ever  fail  in  the  object 
of  her  search.  Sooner  or  later  the  church  was  found, 
and  the  blind  child  conducted  through  the  gates,  and 
along  the  aisle,  and  up  even  to  the  very  rails  of  the 
sanctuary ;  and  there  Perletta  would  coil  herself  com- 
fortably up  into  a  little  round  ball,  and  fall  fast  asleep ; 
while  Agnese,  on  her  part,  reverently  knelt  down  to 
pray,  by  the  modesty  of  her  attitude  and  tenderness  of 
her  devotion  unconsciously  preaching  the  sweet  Jesus 
to  all  who  saw  her. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  Lady  Oranmore  par- 
ticularly fancied  these  lonely  expeditions,  yet  she  did 
not  forbid  them,  because  unwilling  to  commence  her 
guardianship  by  such  a  disagreeable  act  of  authority; 
and  finding,  at  last,  that  Agnese  always  returned  with- 
out accident,  she  took  confidence  in  the  good  guidance 
of  Perletta,  and  lost  all  her  anxieties  on  the  subject, 
if,  indeed,  she  did  not  forget  it  altogether.  Her  mem- 
ory, however,  was  suddenly  refreshed  by  a  rather  un- 
pleasant incident  which  took  place  on  their  arrival  at 
Dover.  They  had  only  landed  the  night  before,  but, 
though  feeling  sick  and  giddy  from  the  rough  sea 
voyage,  Agnese  could  not  resolve  upon  giving  up  her 
visit  to  the  church,  so  she  rose  early,  and,  descending 


60  BLIND  AGNESE 

into  the  street,  shook  the  ribbon  round  Perletta's  neck, 
and  said,  as  usual,  "Alia  chiesa !  alia  chiesa !" 

Alas!  for  poor  Perletta!  For  once  her  sagacity 
was  completely  at  fault.  She  had  hitherto  always  had 
a  clue  to  her  destination  in  the  ringing  of  the  bells, 
the  thronging  of  the  people  without,  the  low  murmur 
of  prayer  from  within;  but  now,  in  vain  she  snuffed 
the  air — in  vain  she  ran  backwards  and  forwards,  up 
the  street  and  down  the  street.  The  poor  dog  was 
completely  bewildered.  It  is  true  she  came  to  a 
church,  but  the  doors  were  closed;  the  bells  were 
silent;  not  a  creature  was  lingering  near  it.  Perletta 
was  not  used  to  see  deserted  churches,  so  she  very 
naturally  passed  it  by.  Her  next  essay  was  the 
market-place.  There  was  plenty  of  people  here,  and 
something  more  than  the  murmur  of  voices  among  its 
buyers  and  sellers.  But  Perletta  understood  markets 
quite  as  well  as  she  did  churches ;  and,  being  a  dog  of 
sagacity,  knew  this  was  not  precisely  what  Agnese 
wanted,  therefore  she  trotted  on  until  she  arrived  at 
the  theatre.  It  so  happened  that  a  celebrated  actor 
was  to  perform  there  that  night,  and  hundreds  of 
people  were  already  at  the  doors  to  secure  themselves 
places.  Perletta  began  to  think  she  was  right  this 
time,  but  a  kick  from  an  impatient  bye-stander  speedily 
convinced  her  of  her  error,  and,  howling  with  pain, 
she  ran  off  so  fast  that  Agnese  had  some  difficulty  in 
keeping  up  to  her  paces.  On  their  way  back,  they 
once  more  stumbled  upon  the  church;  and  this  time 
the  bells  were  tolling,  for  a  funeral  was  to  take  place 
there  that  day.  What  wonder  if  Perletta  was  deceived. 
She  trotted  up  the  steps,  and,  finding  the  gates  still 


BLIND  AGNESE  61 

closed,  very  contentedly  coiled  herself  up  at  their  en- 
trance, thus  giving  Agnese  intelligibly  to  understand 
that  she  had  accomplished  her  mission,  and  would  go 
no  further.  The  blind  child  took  the  hint  and  sat 
down  on  the  steps,  resolving  to  wait  there  until  the 
church  should  be  opened.  But  minute  after  minute 
passed  away,  and  no  one  came.  And  now  the  poor 
little  Italian  began  to  shiver  in  the  cold;  yet,  perhaps, 
it  was  not  altogether  the  unaccustomed  rawness  of  a 
British  morning  which  made  her  tremble:  there  was 
a  vague  fear  also  falling  around  her,  which  seemed  to 
penetrate  and  chill  her  very  heart.  It  was  so  strange 
to  her  that  a  church  should  be  there,  and  no  one  to 
enter  it;  that  the  bells  should  be  tolling,  and  no  one 
found  to  obey  the  summons.  Poor  Agnese!  she  was 
not  much  of  a  philosopher,  I  am  afraid,  for  at  last, 
finding  herself  disappointed  in  her  hopes,  and  fright- 
ened and  confused,  she  could  scarcely  tell  wherefore, 
she  put  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  faithful 
Perletta,  and  burst  into  tears.  Her  foreign  dress,  her 
desolate  attitude,  the  dog,  which  everywhere  betrayed 
the  secret  of  her  blindness,  soon  drew  a  crowd  around 
her;  and  innumerable  were  the  conjectures,  some  in 
jest  and  some  in  earnest,  elicited  by  her  singular  ap- 
pearance. "Who  is  she?  What  is  she?  Has  she  lost 
anybody,  or  has  anybody  lost  her?"  Sometimes  the 
spectators  addressed  these  queries  to  Agnese,  some- 
times to  each  other.  The  child  grew  every  moment 
more  bewildered.  She  felt  the  crowd  pressing  heavily 
around  her;  she  heard  their  questions,  though  she 
could  not  understand  their  import.  And  once  she  even 
rose  with  the  intention  of  making  her  escape,  but  sud- 


62  BLIND  AGNESE 

denly  recollecting  her  inability  to  do  so,  she  sat  down 
again,  trembling  violently,  and  weeping  more  bitterly 
than  ever. 

"Do  be  quiet,"  said  an  elderly  gentleman;  "you  ter- 
rify the  child  with  your  chatter.  What  is  it,  my  little 
one,  and  why  do  you  weep  so  sadly?"  he  added  ad- 
dressing Agnese. 

The  blind  child  did  not  understand  this  speech,  but 
she  answered  in  the  only  English  word  she  could  as 
yet  perfectly  pronounce — 

"Church— church!" 

"She  must  be  a  furriner,"  said  a  sailor.  "They  are 
used  to  having  their  churches  always  open  in  furrin 
parts." 

"That's  it,"  said  another.  "Look  at  all  her  furrin 
gew-gaws.  I  suppose  that  this  little  Papist  spawn  is 
one  of  the  party  from  the  packet  last  night." 

"A  Papist!"  said  a  tall,  evangelical-looking  person, 
with  a  very  vinegar  aspect;  "the  Lord  preserve  us. 
It  would  be  a  charity  to  send  her  to  the  poorhouse, 
poor  benighted  individual." 

"It  would  be  a  greater  charity  to  see  her  safe  home 
to  her  friends,  I  should  say,"  said  Agnese's  self- 
elected  champion,  indignantly  eyeing  the  vinegar- faced 
evangelical.  "Harkee,  Mr.  sailor,  what  inn  did  this 
foreign  party  put  up  at?" 

"Star  and  Garter,  sir;  and  I  won't  take  upon  me 
to  say,  this  young  un  was  among  them.  But  there 
wor  some  furrin  parrots,  that  I'll  take  my  oath  of; 
they  were  chattering  at  such  a  precious  rate  as  they 
stepped  out  of  the  packet." 

"Well,  we  can  but  try.    Come  along,  my  little  maid ; 


BLIND  AGNESE  63 

I  will  see  if  I  cannot  make  out  your  friends  for  you," 
said  the  gentleman,  taking  her  hand;  and  Perletta, 
starting  forward  at  the  same  moment,  Agnese  had  no 
choice  but  to  obey. 

The  inn  was  easily  found,  and  Agnese  restored  to 
her  grandmother,  who  had  begun  to  feel  exceedingly 
alarmed  by  her  absence. 

"Explain  to  your  grandchild,  madame,"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  with  a  caustic  severity  of  phrase,  which 
might  hardly  have  been  expected  from  one  of  his  sin- 
gularly mild  and  benevolent  appearance,  "that  we  are 
a  commercial  people,  and  have  no  idea  of  giving  more 
than  is  asked  for  anything,  however  important.  Six 
days  in  the  week  we  keep  for  ourselves;  the  seventh 
we  give  to  God.  'Tis  what  He  himself  demanded, 
and  we  stick  to  our  agreement.  We  are  too  business- 
like to  do  more  than  is  necessary;  it  would  be  a  waste 
of  both  time  and  capital." 

The  old  gentleman  spoke  in  a  kind  of  jesting  earn- 
est; and  Lady  Oranmore  felt  so  provoked  both  at 
the  truth  and  freedom  of  his  words,  that  she  did  not 
thank  him,  perhaps,  quite  so  graciously  as  she  might 
otherwise  have  done.  The  reserve  did  not  seem  at  all 
to  afflict  him,  however ;  he  patted  Perletta  on  the  head, 
shook  Agnese  by  the  hand,  and,  in  reply  to  her  little 
speech  of  gratitude,  uttered  in  Italian,  but  made  quite 
intelligible  by  its  tone  and  manner,  he  only  answered — 

"It  is  nothing,  my  child,  absolutely  nothing ;  only  as 
you  are  a  Papist,  and  do  not  belong  to  this  mercantile 
people,  perhaps  you  had  better  go  back  to  the  land 
from  whence  you  came.  I  am  told  you  can  there 
waste  your  time  in  the  churches  all  the  day  long,  if 


64  BLIND  AGNESE 

you  like  it;  if,  indeed,  waste  of  time  it  be,  to  bestow 
it  on  Him  who  is  the  Lord  of  time  as  well  as  of 
eternity." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  head  as  he  spoke  in  token 
of  farewell;  and  the  action  recalled  Francesco  so 
vividly  to  her  mind,  that  Agnese  burst  into  tears.  The 
stranger  cast  one  more  glance  of  compassion  upon 
her,  bowed  to  Lady  Oranmore,  and  abruptly  quitted 
the  room.  As  soon  as  he  had  fairly  closed  the  door, 
the  latter  tried  to  make  Agnese  comprehend  the  in- 
utility  of  seeking  for  open  churches  in  England  upon 
any  day  but  Sunday.  Had  she  told  her  the  sun  had 
left  the  heavens,  the  blind  child  would  probably  have 
been  infinitely  less  astounded.  To  all  her  ladyship's 
arguments,  as  to  the  necessity  of  attending  to  busi- 
ness, the  duty  men  owed  to  themselves  and  their  chil- 
dren of  unceasing  toil  from  morning  until  night, 
Agnese  only  answered — 

"Then  He  is  left  alone,  no  one  to  pray  to  Him  all 
the  week  long ;  no  one  to  worship  Him;  no  one  to  love 
Him;  and  yet,  He  is  there,  only  that  we  may  love  Him 
and  speak  to  Him  quite  at  our  ease." 

Lady  Oranmore  felt  at  last  she  was  only  wasting 
her  rhetoric ;  so  she  ceased  to  argue,  and  endeavoured 
to  console  the  weeping  child  by  assuring  her  that,  on 
their  arrival  at  Oranmore  Castle,  she  would  take  her 
to  the  village  church  which  she  had  always  been  in 
the  habit  of  attending  herself ;  and  in  which,  on  Sun- 
days, at  least,  she  might  pray  all  the  day  long  if  she 
liked  it.  Agnese  did  not  seem  quite  so  enchanted  with 
this  assurance  as  her  ladyship  had  expected;  in  fact, 
she  began  to  doubt  seriously  as  to  the  nature  of  her 


BLIND  AGNESE  65 

grandmother's  religion.  The  prediction  of  Francesco 
appeared  on  the  point  of  fulfilment,  and  she  felt  it  was 
not,  perhaps,  in  vain  that  he  had  required  her  so 
solemnly  to  promise  to  be  faithful  to  Jesus  even  unto 
death.  How  far  she  was  right  in  her  conjectures  my 
readers  already  know;  but,  although  Lady  Oranmore 
had  fully  resolved  upon  changing  the  religion  of  her 
grandchild,  she  yet  shrunk  from  inflicting  the  pain 
which  she  felt  such  a  resolution  would  cause  to  its 
object.  The  possibility  of  Agnese's  resisting  her  au- 
thority never,  for  an  instant,  occurred  to  her  mind. 
"Such  a  mere  child,"  thought  she;  "what  on  earth 
difference  can  it  make  to  her?"  And  yet,  something 
in  her  own  heart  told  her  there  was  a  difference — a 
difference  which  she  had  felt  herself — a  difference 
which  would  be  yet  more  distasteful  to  the  feelings  of 
Agnese,  than  she  was  forced  sometimes  to  acknowl- 
edge she  had  found  it  to  her  own.  She  determined, 
therefore,  to  do  nothing  in  a  hurry,  but  to  wait  until 
Agnese's  Italian  recollections  had  faded  away,  and 
until  her  young  heart  should  have  been  chilled  into  in- 
difference by  the  absence  of  all  the  sight  and  cere- 
monial of  the  Catholic  Church,  which  she  fancied  had 
nursed  it  into  its  fervent  religion,  before  venturing 
to  propose  a  new  form  to  its  worship.  She  little  knew 
the  strength  of  mind,  young  as  it  was,  with  which  she 
had  to  deal,  still  less  did  she  comprehend  the  endur- 
ing character  of  that  faith  which  had  early  stamped 
itself  on  Agnese's  heart,  for  she  felt  that  she  herself 
at  the  same  age  had  been  totally  without  any  fixed 
religious  principle  of  any  kind,  and  that,  at  the  bare 
instigation  of  a  superior,  she  would  have  gone  quite 


66  BLIND  AGNESE 

willingly  to  any  church,  chapel,  or  meeting-house  in 
the  land.  With  such  a  recollection  in  her  own  heart, 
it  was  not  difficult  to  argue  herself  into  a  belief  in 
the  growing  indifference  of  Agnese — a  supposition, 
certainly,  in  some  degree  countenanced  by  the  quiet 
way  in  which  the  latter  received  the  customary  Sun- 
day speech  of  "We  cannot  go  to  church  to-day,  Agnese  ; 
the  weather  is  too  cold,  or  too  damp,  or  too  foggy. 
Remember  we  are  not  in  Italy,  dear  child."  Poor 
Agnese!  she  remembered  it  all  too  well;  but  she  also 
had  taken  her  resolution  "to  wait  and  see ;"  and,  strong 
in  her  determination  of  passive  resistance,  she  suffered 
nothing  of  this  bitter  recollection  to  be  visible  in  her 
manner  as  she  left  Lady  Oranmore's  presence,  and 
sought  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  little  turret-chamber 
spiritually  to  unite  herself  to  the  various  services  of 
her  church. 

After  the  accomplishment  of  this  first  beloved  and 
for  her  daily  duty,  there  was  nothing  the  lonely  child 
loved  so  well  as  to  ramble  by  the  sea-shore,  under  the 
guidance  of  Perletta,  or  to  sit  and  muse  away  the 
hours  on  the  sunny  spot  which  r>he  had  chosen  for 
her  summer  seat  among  the  cliffs.  I  know  not  by 
what  secret  instinct  she  was  led,  yet  certain  it  is,  that 
she  chose  the  holiest  spot  in  all  the  country  round,  and 
one  which  the  peasant  never  passed  but  with  bare 
head  and  reverent  mien,  for  the  scene  of  her  lonely 
meditations.  And  it  was  fair  as  it  was  holy;  lovely 
even  in  its  ruins  was  the  little  church  which  crowned 
the  cliffs,  and  looked  down,  in  its  calm  sanctity,  on  the 
broad  waters  of  the  Atlantic,  beating  idly  and  angrily 
against  the  rocks  below;  lovelier  still,  if  possible,  the 


BLIND  AGNESE  67 

quiet  cemetery  by  which  it  was  surrounded,  and  in 
which  every  wild  flower  the  country  side  could  boast 
of  seemed  to  have  made  for  itself  a  garden — prim- 
rose, and  violet,  and  wood  anemone,  and  wild  sorrel 
clustering  among  its  tombs  in  rich  abundance,  and  con- 
trasting their  scentless  blossoms  with  the  sweet  flowers 
of  the  May,  and  the  meadow  sweet,  and  that  white 
wild  rose  which  is  so  fragrant  and  so  fair,  that  though 
it  blooms  freely  by  the  way  side,  it  is  not  out  of  place 
in  the  garden  of  a  monarch.  Agnese  could  not  see 
them,  but  the  summer's  breeze  often  reminded  her  of 
their  presence ;  and  something  there  was  in  their  soft 
perfume  recalling  the  orange-scented  groves  of  her 
native  Italy,  and  bidding  her  dream  sweet  dreams  of 
the  land  which  now,  more  than  ever,  she  deemed  to 
be  the  land  of  Jesus.  She  did  not  know  that  a  church, 
where  once  He  dwelt  upon  the  altar,  was  close  at  hand, 
or  that  her  favourite  resting-place  was  a  tomb-stone, 
beneath  which,  perchance,  some  village  saint  lay  bur- 
ied. But  there  was  a  holy  stillness  ever  resting  on  the 
spot,  which  soothed  her  spirits;  and  so,  by  degrees, 
she  came  here  oftener,  and  lingered  longer,  until  the 
servants  learned  to  seek  her,  whenever  she  was  miss- 
ing, among  the  ruins  of  St.  Bride's ;  and  the  very  coun- 
try people  came  to  call  her  lowly  resting-place  among 
its  tombs  the  summer  seat  of  Lady  Oranmore's  blind 
child.  Here  she  nursed  her  soul  in  that  deep  thought 
which  Lady  Oranmore  fancied  had  disappeared,  only 
because  it  was  no  longer  visible  on  the  surface,  but 
which,  in  truth,  became  all  the  deeper,  now  that  it  could 
no  longer  flow  forth  into  the  observances  of  religion. 
Had  she  remained  in  Italy,  in  the  free  exercise  of  her 


68  BLIND  AGNESE 

religion  and  under  the  guidance  of  its  ministers,  thought 
would  have  resolved  itself  into  action,  and  action  would 
have  been  made  pleasant  and  sanctified  by  thought.  As 
it  happened,  her  life  became  one  uninterrupted  medi- 
tation; and  a  state  of  things  so  unnatural  to  one  of 
her  tender  years  soon  told  its  tale  upon  her  bodily 
health.  She  had  not  been  three  months  at  Oranmore 
before  there  seemed  every  probability  that  the  observa- 
tion of  Francesco  would  be  realized  in  her  regard,  and 
that  the  flower  would  early  fall,  which  circumstances 
had  thus  forced  into  premature  bloom  and  sweetness. 
Lady  Oranmore  watched  the  vivid  flush  on  the  cheek, 
and  the  strange  brightness  of  the  eye,  and  she  trembled 
for  the  life  of  her  darling;  but  she  could  not  pene- 
trate the  secret  of  her  malady:  she  had  not  sufficient 
sense  of  religion  herself  to  be  able  to  comprehend  how 
its  deprivation  might  affect  a  mind  which,  like  Ag- 
nese's,  had  fed  on  it  from  infancy.  She  knew  not  how 
the  daily  prayer  of  the  blind  child  was  for  the  dove, 
that  it  might  descend — how  her  nightly  dream  was  of 
the  dove,  that  it  had  descended.  Neither  did  she  see 
the  bitter  tears  in  which  she  was  accustomed  to  in- 
dulge, when  believing  herself  alone  and  un watched,  in 
her  lonely  rambles  on  the  cliffs.  One  there  was,  how- 
ever, not  quite  so  ignorant  of  Agnese's  sorrow — one, 
ever  hovering  near  her  and  around  her,  even  in  the 
hours  when  the  child  fancied  herself  alone;  and  some- 
times a  light  step  in  the  grass,  or  a  sigh,  or  a  long- 
drawn  breath,  almost  betrayed  the  presence  of  this  in- 
visible guardian.  This  had  occurred  so  frequently  of 
late,  that  by  degrees  a  kind  of  mysterious  awe  began 
to  mingle  with  her  musings;  she  never  felt  as  if  she 


BLIND  AGNESE  69 

were  quite  alone.  It  was  always  as  though  a  spirit 
was  lingering  near;  and  one  evening  (it  surely  could 
not  have  been  her  fancy)  she  even  imagined  a  sweet, 
low  voice  pronounced  her  name — "Agnese !" 

Trembling  violently,  she  started  to  her  feet,  but  no 
answer  was  returned  to  her  eager  questions,  only  she 
thought  she  heard  a  deeper  sigh,  and  then  a  receding 
footstep,  and  then  all  was  once  more  silent  as  the 
grave.  Agnese  sat  down  again,  for  she  felt  she  could 
not  stand,  and  her  heart  throbbed  so  wildly  that  she 
almost  fancied  she  could  hear  it  beating;  a  few  min- 
utes afterwards  she  was  once  more  startled  by  the 
sound  of  her  own  name,  but  this  time  it  was  Lady 
Oranmore,  who  came  to  tell  her  that  the  next  day, 
being  Sunday,  she  would  take  her  with  her,  if  she 
liked,  to  Divine  Service  at  the  Church  of  Oranmore. 
Agnese  listened,  but  she  was  not  glad,  and  she  thanked 
her,  but  it  was  mechanically.  There  was  no  real  joy 
in  her  words  and  feelings.  She  did  not  feel  sure  Lady 
Oranmore  was  a  Catholic,  and  it  was  therefore  with 
depressed  spirits  and  trembling  heart  that  she  pre- 
pared the  next  morning  to  accompany  her  to  Church. 

If  ever  our  angel  guardians  give  warning  of  the  pres- 
ence of  danger,  as  I  devoutly  believe  they  often  do  by 
their  secret  inspirations  to  the  innocently  unconscious, 
Agnese  received  such  a  warning  in  the  hour  when  she 
stepped  over  the  threshold  of  that  Church.  She  felt 
as  if  the  very  air  were  too  heavy  for  her  breathing. 
The  service  had  commenced  already,  and  she  paused 
for  a  moment,  in  hopes  of  catching  those  dear,  famil- 
iar sounds  to  which  she  had  listened  from  her  child- 
hood, until  it  almost  seemed  as  if  she  understood  them 


70  BLIND  AGNESE 

by  mere  force  of  intimacy  with  their  terms.  Alas !  the 
language  that  now  met  her  ear  was  not  the  language 
of  the  Mass,  by  which  the  Catholic  is  made  equally  at 
home  in  the  observances  of  his  religion,  whether  he 
attend  them  in  the  wigwam  of  the  savage  Indian,  or 
the  cathedral  of  the  civilized  European.  It  was  not 
the  language  of  the  Mass,  and  the  words  of  Francesco 
flashed  upon  her  memory. 

"No!  no!  not  here!"  she  said,  quick  as  lightning, 
resisting  the  hand  which  urged  her  into  the  well- 
cushioned  pew  of  the  Oranmore  family.  "Under  the 
lamp!  under  the  lamp!  It  is  there  I  ever  pray  the 
best !"  "There  is  no  lamp  here,"  said  Lady  Oranmore, 
thrown  off  her  guard  by  the  suddenness  of  the  request, 
and  closing  the  door  of  the  pew,  into  which  she  had 
now  drawn  her  grandchild  almost  by  force.  Agnese 
heard,  and  for  one  brief  instant  there  was  a  struggle 
in  her  heart,  a  struggle  such  as  seldom  occurs  more 
than  once  in  the  life  of  a  human  being,  but  which 
sometimes  earlier,  sometimes  later,  is  almost  sure,  not 
only  to  come  at  last,  but  to  be  made  far  oftener  than 
we  imagine  the  turning-point  at  which  the  happiness 
or  misery  of  an  eternity  is  decided. 

"What  will  Lady  Oranmore  say?  what  will  the 
people  think?"  It  was  so  her  human  nature  ques- 
tioned; but  in  truth  it  required  something  of  the 
faith  and  courage  of  a  martyr  to  brave  the  scrutiny 
of  the  hundred  eyes  that  would  be  fixed  upon  her,  if 
she  attempted  to  leave  the  Church.  But  it  must  be 
done — no  Latin  Mass,  no  lamp.  Jesus  was  neither  in 
the  Church  nor  of  it,  and  not  another  instant  might 
the  Little  Bride  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  kneel  be- 


BLIND  AGNESE  71 

fore  an  altar  where  He  was  not.  One  prayer  to  Him 
— one  word  to  Perletta,  and,  before  Lady  Oranmore 
could  interpose  to  prevent  it,  the  pew  door  was  un- 
fastened, and  the  long  length  of  the  Church  traversed, 
with  a  steady  heart,  although  it  must  be  acknowledged 
a  most  uncertain  footstep.  Up  to  this  point  Agnese 
had  managed  to  restrain  herself  to  a  walk;  but  no 
sooner  had  she  gained  the  portals  of  the  building 
than,  yielding  to  the  fear  of  being  pursued,  she  shook 
the  ribbon  round  Perletta's  neck,  and  set  off  at  a  rapid 
pace  towards  her  summer  seat  upon  the  cliffs.  There, 
casting  herself  on  her  face,  she  burst  into  tears;  by 
degrees,  however,  her  agitation  subsided,  and  she  fell 
fast  asleep,  yet  even  in  her  dreams  the  scene  of  the 
morning  was  not  absent  from  her  imagination,  and 
more  than  once  she  murmured  half  aloud,  "Jesus  is 
not  here — where  is  He,  then  ?  my  God,  where  is  He  ?" 
"Jesus  once  was  here,"  said  a  sweet,  low  voice  in  her 
ear.  Agnese  started  up,  fancying  at  first  the  words 
to  be  only  a  portion  of  her  own  dream.  But  now  she 
was  wide  awake,  and  still  the  plaintive  melody  of  that 
voice  was  heard.  "Time  was  that  He  was  here,  and 
yonder  church  was  His  house  and  home.  But  sacri- 
legious feet  have  defiled  the  sanctuary,  and  sacrileg- 
ious hands  have  overturned  the  altar,  and  now  the 
thistle  and  wild  nettle  grow,  and  the  fox  has  made  for 
itself  a  home,  even  here  where  He  once  dwelt  in  the 
very  sacrament  of  His  love  for  man." 

"Where  am  I?  where  am  I?"  said  Agnese,  scarcely 
able  to  believe  her  own  ears,  and  tempted  to  fancy  she 
was  again  in  Italy,  or  dreaming  of  it,  so  familiar  were 
the  soft  Italian  in  which  those  thoughts  were  uttered. 


72  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Where  are  you?"  returned  the  voice.  "In  the 
churchyard  of  lone  St.  Bride's — on  the  very  spot 
where,  if  tradition  tells  the  truth,  St.  Patrick  built  his 
first  altar,  and  said  his  first  Mass  in  the  land  of  Erin.* 

"Then  I  am  close  to  the  Church  of  Jesus,  and  I 
knew  it  not,"  said  the  wondering  child. 

"To  what  once  was  a  church  of  Jesus.  The  church 
is  now  in  ruins;  and  they  who  hare  made  it  so  have 
run  a  public  road  right  among  the  tombs  of  the  dese- 
crated dead.  Well!  well!  nature  has  been  more  con- 
siderate than  man,  as  they  say  she  ever  is  in  this  land, 
and  so  she  has  made  the  holy  resting-place  of  our 
fathers  beautiful  in  flowers,  some  of  the  pale  blos- 
soms she  has  garnered  here  even  vicing,  methinks,  in 
beauty  with  the  fairest  that  you  know  of  in  your  own 
fair  land." 

Agnese  was  too  much  lost  in  astonishment  to  an- 
swer; and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  the  invisible  went 
on — 

"Would  that  you  could  see  them!  The  crowds  of 
primroses;  the  clusters  of  white  roses;  the  delicate 
little  hare-bell ;  the  wood  anemone ;  and  that  other,  the 
wild  sorrel — the  fairest  flower  that  grows,  to  my  mind 
— 'lady  flower,'  I  would  name  it,  if  I  had  my  way;  it 
is  so  fragile  and  so  fair,  that  it  looks  like  to  Mary, 
and  ought  to  be  called  after  her.  There  I  have  gathered 
some  of  each  for  you,  and  they  shall  be  to  you  as  a 
relic  of  this  holy  spot,  where  (so  the  poor  people  say) 
no  worm  or  creeping  thing  is  ever  found,  to  defile  the 
slumbers  of  the  dead  below,  or  to  mar  the  beauty  of 
the  flowers  above." 

*  Tradition  in  the  north  of  Ireland. 


BLIND  AGNESE  73 

"Come  hither,"  said  Agnese;  "I  am  blind,  and  I 
cannot  see;  but  if  you  are  not  the  guardian  spirit  of 
these  tombs,  come  hither,  and  take  my  hand  in  yours, 
and  lay  my  head  upon  your  bosom,  and  speak  to  me  of 
Jesus.  Never  have  I  heard  any  one  speak  of  Him 
as  you  do,  since  the  day  I  left  that  land  where  He  is 
everywhere,  and  everywhere  people  love  Him." 

Agnese  felt  the  unknown  draw  near;  and  the  hand 
that  was  laid  on  hers  was  small,  and  soft,  and  delicate, 
evidently  the  hand  of  a  girl,  and  a  very  young  girl,  too. 

"Neither  a  spirit,  nor  yet  of  Italy,  am  I,"  the  voice 
replied;  "although  I  use  its  language." 

"Not  of  Italy,"  said  the  blind  child,  sadly.  "Then 
you  know  not  of  its  churches,  where  the  lamp  is  ever 
lighting,  and  where  Jesus  ever  dwells." 

"Do  I  not?"  said  the  voice,  with  sudden  quickness. 
"To  what  purpose,  then,  have  I  listened  so  often  to 
tales  of  that  fair  land,  and  of  one  sweet  saint  who 
sleeps  among  its  flowers?" 

There  was  something  inexpressibly  mournful  in  its 
tones,  as  it  added,  after  a  moment's  pause — 

"My  child,  no  blood  of  Italy  is  flowing  through 
these  veins ;  yet  have  I  dreamed  of  it  so  often  that  it 
seems  to  me,  if  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  were  set  in 
array  before  me,  I  could  choose  it  out  from  among 
all  the  rest,  and  oh!  believe  me,  I  should  choose  the 
fairest" 

"And  the  holiest,"  said  Agnese,  eagerly. 

"I  know  not  that.  It  is  holy,  indeed,  to  cling  to  the 
thought  of  Jesus,  as  they  do  in  your  land;  but  holier 
still  to  suffer  persecution  for  His  sake;  and  that  is 
what  we  do  in  ours." 


74  BLIND  AGNESE 

''Halloa!  young  woman,"  cried  another  voice,  "saw 
you  ever  a  man  pass  this  way  within  the  last  half 
hour?" 

The  new  speaker  was  a  hard-looking  elderly  man, 
standing  on  the  other  side  of  a  hedge  and  deep  ditch 
which  separated  him  from  the  churchyard.  He  spoke 
in  Irish,  probably  imagining  he  would  be  more  easily 
understood  in  that  language;  but  Agnese's  unknown 
companion  answered  him  in  English:  and  the  voice, 
so  lately  full  of  plaintive  melody,  was  now  as  clearly 
expressive  of  cold  contempt  as  were  the  words  it  ut- 
tered. 

"Squire  Netterville  is  early  in  the  field  this  fine  Sun- 
day morning.  Well !  the  better  day  the  better  deed,  I 
suppose.  And  what  may  be  the  present  game — a  rebel 
or  a  priest  ?" 

"If  it  were  a  rebel,  I  need  not  go  much  farther,"  re- 
turned the  surly  voice,  in  the  same  language  in  which 
he  had  been  addressed.  "Every  Papist  is  alike  a 
croppy — man,  woman  or  child — all  tarred  with  the 
same  brush." 

"True;  and  not  very  extraordinary  either.  When 
the  brush  is  in  such  clumsy  hands  as  Squire  Netter- 
ville's,  no  wonder,  we  all  take  a  touch  of  the  tar.  Why, 
they  say  the  very  parson  in  your  fine  church  up  yonder 
is  not  altogether  free  of  taint.  To  be  sure  he  is  only  a 
wolf  in  sheep's  clothing — a  cowardly  renegade — so 
Squire  Netterville  will  know  how  to  excuse  him." 

"Will  you  give  an  answer  to  my  question,  or  shall 
I  jump  over  the  hedge  and  thrash  one  out  of  you!" 
roared  the  man,  stung  to  the  quick  by  the  biting  sar- 
casm of  the  speaker. 


BLIND  AGNESE  75 

"Mother  of  heaven!"  burst  from  the  lips  of  the 
terrified  Agnese,  who  now  pretty  well  understood 
English,  the  language  in  which  the  conversation  was 
kept  up :  but  her  companion  only  answered — 

"To  thrash  a  woman!  truly  it  would  be  a  deed 
worthy  of  Squire  Netterville's  ancient  fame!" 

"See  if  I  don't,  then,"  cried  the  man,  stepping  back 
a  few  paces,  and  taking  a  flying  leap  at  the  hedge. 
Unluckily  for  him,  however,  he  missed  his  footing,  and 
tumbled  hopelessly  into  the  ditch,  from  whence  he 
emerged  in  a  very  deplorable  condition,  covered  with 
mud,  and  not  altogether  free  of  blood,  drawn  from 
him  by  the  thorns  and  briars  which  had  saluted  his 
;descent. 

The  ironical  laugh  of  his  tormentress  rang  through 
the  air. 

"Squire  Netterville  has  dirtied  his  coat;  but,  if  re- 
port speaks  true,  it  is  not  the  first  time  he  has  daubed 
his  escutcheon  by  a  fall." 

Squire  Netterville  was  busy  at  the  moment  in  brush- 
ing the  mud  off  his  coat ;  but  he  looked  up  scarlet,  at 
this  wicked  allusion  to  his  apostasy,  and  shook  his 
horsewhip  in  the  air.  Suddenly,  however,  changing 
his  intention,  he  caught  Agnese  roughly  by  the  arm. 

"Here,  you  beggar's  brat,  take  this  fi'-penny,  and 
tell  me  whether  you  saw  any  one  pass  this  way  of 
late." 

"I  am  blind,  sir;  I  cannot  see,"  cried  the  terrified 
child,  trembling  from  head  to  foot  beneath  his  grasp. 

"You  lie,  you  young  rebel!"  growled  the  savage, 
with  a  terrible  oath,  whirling  his  horsewhip,  at  the 
same  time,  so  close  round  the  head  of  the  shrinking 


76  BLIND  AGNESE 

child,  that  it  lifted  her  long  curls  from  her  brow. 
Twice  he  repeated  this  manoeuvre;  but  the  third  time 
it  would  have  descended  in  right  earnest,  had  not  some 
one  suddenly  flung  her  arms  round  Agnese,  and  re- 
ceived, on  her  own  person,  the  blow  that  was  intended 
for  hers.  It  was  her  invisible  friend,  who  thus  inter- 
posed in  her  behalf;  and  she  was  a  young  girl,  not, 
perhaps,  more  than  sixteen  years  of  age.  Yet  was 
there  no  sign  of  fear  on  her  flushed  cheek,  or  in  the 
proud  eye  which  she  fixed  upon  the  squire.  He  him- 
self seemed  to  quail  for  a  moment  beneath  its  steady 
gaze. 

"Squire  Netterville  surpasses  himself  this  morning," 
she  said;  and  it  was  impossible  for  human  voice  to 
convey  deeper  abhorrence  than  hers  expressed  at  that 
moment.  "To  hunt  an  old  man,  as  if  he  were  a  mad 
dog,  is  not  enough  for  a  zeal  like  his;  he  would  set 
the  seal  on  his  good  deeds  by  the  murder  of  an  in- 
nocent child." 

"You  have  seen  him,  then.  Now,  hark  ye,  young 
mistress!  if  you  will  not  tell  me  which  way  he  took, 
I  will  leave  a  mark  upon  you  which  you  will  carry 
with  you  to  your  grave." 

"You  have  done  that  already,"  said  the  girl,  draw- 
ing one  hand  across  her  brow,  from  which  the  blood 
was  flowing  rapidly. 

"I  will  do  it  again,  then,  if  you  don't  choose  to  an- 
swer my  question." 

"Now,  look  you,  Squire  Netterville,"  the  girl  an- 
swered, proudly;  "and  mark  what  I  say.  I  might  pre- 
tend I  didn't  know  the  man  for  whom  you  are  looking 
or  that  I  hadn't  seen  him,  but  I  scorn  the  poor  evasion. 


BLIND  AGNESE  77 

I  do  know  him;  and  I  have  seen  him;  and  I  know 
which  way  he  went ;  and  where  he  is  at  this  moment. 
And  now,  if  you  flog  me  alive  for  it,  you  shall  not  get 
another  word  from  me  about  him." 

"I  will  flog  you  alive — both  of  you,"  shouted  Netter- 
ville.  "Here,  you  little  wretch,"  he  cried,  shaking  Ag- 
nese  by  the  arm :  "have  you  found  your  tongue  yet,  or 
do  you  want  a  cut  of  the  whip  to  make  you  speak?" 

"I  am  blind !  I  am  blind !"  screamed  the  child,  cling- 
ing, with  all  her  might,  to  her  self-elected  champion. 

"Peace,  child,  he  shall  not  harm  you,"  said  the  latter. 

"Shan't  I,  though— shan't  I?"  vociferated  Netter- 
ville,  lifting  his  whip,  and  making  a  cut  in  the  air, 
which,  however,  fell  short  of  its  object,  and  descended 
right  upon  Perletta,  who  had  sprung  up  on  hearing 
the  screams  of  her  mistress. 

"Curse  the  brute — it  spoiled  my  aim,"  said  the  sav- 
age, dealing,  at  the  same  time,  a  kick  at  poor  Per- 
letta, which  sent  her  flying  through  the  air.  Here, 
Rover!  Rover!"  he  added,  whistling  and  making  a 
well-known  sign  to  the  fierce  blood-hound  by  which 
he  was  accompanied. 

"Do  not  set  the  dog,  Squire  Netterville;  do  not  set 
the  dog.  It  will  destroy  the  poor  beast,"  said  Agnese's 
defender,  earnestly,  stooping  as  if  to  pick  up  something 
from  the  ground. 

"That's  what  I  mean  him  to  do.  Here,  Rover,  have 
at  him,  my  boy — have  at  him !"  said  Netterville,  patting 
the  blood-hound  encouragingly  on  the  back. 

"You  will  have  it,  then,"  retorted  the  girl. 

And  still  holding  Agnese  with  one  hand,  she  drew 
the  other  suddenly  back,  and  flung  a  heavy  stone  at 


78  BLIND  AGNESE 

the  dog,  before  the  squire  could  interpose  to  prevent 
her.  Never  was  stone  sent  with  a  truer  aim  or  better 
will:  it  hit  the  savage  beast  right  in  the  eye;  and, 
howling  with  pain,  and  half  blinded  in  his  own  gore, 
Rover  rushed  ingloriously  from  the  field  of  battle. 
Netterville  uttered  a  fearful  imprecation. 

"If  you  have  injured  him  I  will  ring  your  head  off 
your  shoulders ;  anyhow,  I  will  teach  you  what  it  is  to 
meddle  with  my  dog,  my  young  mistress." 

And,  half  beside  himself  with  passion,  it  is  hard  to 
say  what  he  would  not,  indeed,  have  done  to  his  daring 
antagonist,  had  not  another  man  shouted  out  from  the 
other  side  of  the  hedge. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  squire  ?  Why,  the  priest 
was  down  on  the  beach  half  an  hour  ago ;  one  of  our 
people  saw  him  sneaking  about.  There,  let  the  chil- 
dren alone.  If  you  have  a  score  to  wipe  out  with  them, 
it  will  keep  for  another  time,  I  suppose." 

"Ay,  ay ;  it  will  keep,"  said  the  squire,  with  a  brutal 
laugh.  "And  I  am  not  the  man  to  forget  it  either. 
You  are  down  in  my  book  for  a  drubbing,  mind  that, 
you  she  croppy,"  he  added,  scowling  terribly  at  Ag- 
nese's  defender,  while  he  turned  to  the  blind  child 
herself,  with  something  like  an  awkward  attempt  at 
good  nature. 

"There,  little  one,  I  suppose  you  are  blind,  as  you 
say  so ;  pick  up  the  fi-penny  yonder,  and  buy  a  plaster 
for  your  dog." 

"Touch  it  not,  child,"  said  the  young  unknown,  fear- 
lessly and  authoritatively  to  Agnese.  "Touch  it  not; 
the  coin  of  the  blood-hunter  can  bring  you  nothing  but 
sorrow.  And  you,  bad  man,  take  back  your  money 


BLIND  AGNESE  79 

and  enjoy  it  while  you  may,  for  the  curse  of  the  widow 
and  the  orphan  is  on  it;  and  the  day  is  coming  fast 
when  the  wealth  so  won  in  crime  will  heap  shame, 
and  woe,  and  degradation,  and  fruitless  tears,  and 
vain  repentance  on  your  head.  And  now,  why  are  you 
so  still?  and  why  do  you  stare  so  wildly?  Away, 
away!  the  chase  is  onward,  and  the  prey  escapes  you 
while  you  linger  here." 

The  squire  did,  indeed,  stare  wildly  at  her;  but  the 
man  who  had  come  to  seek  him  having,  by  this  time, 
cleared  the  ditch  rather  more  successfully  than  he  had 
done  himself,  took  his  arm  and  drew  him  rapidly  down 
the  mountain-path. 

"Do  not  cry,  dear  child — do  not  cry,"  said  the  girl 
to  Agnese,  her  voice  resuming  all  its  former  tender- 
ness of  tone;  "they  are  quite  out  of  sight  now;  and 
the  dog  is  not  much  hurt,  and  will,  I  am  sure,  be  able 
to  lead  you  safely  to  the  Castle." 

"Oh,  do  not  leave  me,"  cried  Agnese;  "I  dare  not 
go  home  without  you." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  other,  a  little  reluctantly, 
"I  will  walk  with  you  as  far  as  the  gates  of  the 
avenue." 

But  when  they  had  reached  this  point,  Agnese  clung 
to  her  still,  and  cried  so  piteously,  that  almost,  in  her 
own  despair,  she  was  forced  to  proceed  with  her  to 
the  castle.  Lady  Oranmore  met  them  on  the  steps, 
and  nearly  forgot  Agnese's  bold  secession  from  her 
Church,  in  terror  at  the  vision  of  her  pale  face  and 
the  blood-stained  forehead  of  her  companion. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  this  last,  in  answer  to  her  lady- 
ship's horror-stricken  looks;  "at  least,  nothing  but 


8o  BLIND  AGNESE 

what  they  may  look  for  who  find  themselves  aban- 
doned to  the  tender  mercies  of  Squire  Netterville." 

"Netterville,  again !"  cried  Lady  Oranmore.  "What 
wickedness  is  that  man  plotting  now?" 

"Nothing  new,  madam,"  said  she;  and  the  girl's 
kindling  eye  strangely  contradicted  the  assumed  non- 
chalance of  her  manner.  "Only  plying  his  ancient 
trade  more  vigorously  than  ever:  hunting  priests  and 
Papists  from  land  to  water,  and  from  water  to  land, 
as  if  they  had  only  been  sent  by  Providence  to  serve 
as  otters  or  wild  foxes  for  his  especial  amusement." 

Lady  Oranmore  shuddered.  She  had  once  detested 
priests  and  Papists  as  much  as  Squire  Netterville  him- 
self;  but  of  late  her  thoughts  on  the  subject  had  been 
rapidly  changing.  She  made  no  direct  reply,  however, 
although  she  kindly,  and  almost  affectionately,  joined 
Agnese  in  her  entreaties  to  her  unknown  protectress, 
that  she  would  come  in,  and  suffer  the  wound  on  her 
forehead  to  be  properly  cared  for.  They  were  both 
refused,  with  a  look  of  proud  embarrassment,  which 
Lady  Oranmore  took,  at  first,  for  natural  timidity;  so 
she  would  listen  to  no  excuse,  hurrying  her  guest,  with 
a  kind  of  good-natured  violence,  into  the  castle  hall, 
and  from  thence  to  her  own  private  sitting-room,  to 
which  none  but  her  especial  favourites  ever  found  ad- 
mittance. The  blood  rushed  into  the  stranger's  face 
as  she  crossed  the  threshold;  and  for  a  moment  she 
stood  gazing  so  silently  around  her  that  Lady  Oran- 
more might  again  have  fancied  her  overcome  by  shy- 
ness, had  not  something  in  her  look  and  attitude  con- 
tradicted the  idea.  In  spite  of  her  shabby  dress — for 
to  say  the  truth,  the  close,  black  gown  she  wore  was 


BLIND  AGNESE  81 

both  old  and  faded,  and  deserving  of  no  better  title — 
in  spite,  too,  of  her  blood-stained  features,  and  the 
uncouth  bandage  which  she  herself  had  wrapt  around 
her  forehead, — the  girl  still  looked  as  if  to  tread  the 
hall  of  princes  was  no  new  thing  to  her. 

She  was  thinking  (that  was  plain),  but  not  of  the 
present  splendors  with  which  she  found  herself  sur- 
rounded ;  it  might,  perchance,  be  the  memory  of  some 
distant  time  to  which  her  mind  reverted,  and,  for  a 
moment,  a  look  of  pleasure  stole  over  her  face,  despite 
the  settled  look  of  pain  there. 

"I  have  never  seen  you  before,"  cried  Lady  Oran- 
more,  suddenly,  "yet  is  your  face  familiar  to  me,  as 
if  I  know  you  from  your  mother's  arms." 

The  girl  sighed  more  deeply  than  before ;  and  with- 
drawing her  eye  slowly  from  an  arm-chair,  of  antique 
fashion,  upon  which  they  had  been  a  long  time  rivet- 
ted,  fixed  them  steadily  on  the  speaker's  face;  and 
said,  after  a  moment's  pause — 

"Have  you  never  felt  that  before,  Lady  Oranmore? 
Have  you  never  found  a  conversation — a  turn  of 
thought — a  mere  word,  perhaps,  come  upon  your  ear, 
as  if  it  were  the  echo  of  one  long  listened  to  before? 
it  is  so,  likewise,  with  pictures  and  with  landscapes, 
and  it  may  well  be  with  faces,  also.  We  look  upon 
them,  as  if  they  had  been  with  us  in  a  dream  already." 

"Strange  girl!"  cried  Lady  Oranmore;  "what  is 
your  name?" 

"Grace,"  answered  her  visitant,  shortly  and  with 
peculiar  emphasis  on  the  word. 

"Grace  what? — you  have  another,  I  suppose?" 

"I  have  no  other,  lady;  or  if  I  ever  had,  they  have 


82  BLIND  AGNESE 

taken  it  away — they  who  hate  us  for  our  race  and  for 
our  country — but  yet  more,  thanks  be  to  God,  for  our 
religion." 

"You  are  a  Catholic,  then,  and  have  suffered  for 
your  faith?" 

"I  have  suffered  in  the  person  of  those  I  loved. 
My  father  had  a  brother,  who,  being  of  the  law  re- 
ligion, the  law  gave  him  a  right  to  dispossess  his  el- 
der of  his  fortune.  He  had  no  scruples  in  his  con- 
science— no  kindness  in  his  heart  to  deter  him  from 
the  deed — and  so  he  did  it;  and  the  poorest  tenant  on 
the  land  was,  on  that  day,  a  richer  man  than  he  who, 
a  few  hours  before,  had  been  lord  of  all." 

"Good  God!  whose  child  are  you?"  cried  Lady 
Oranmore  in  great  agitation,  catching  the  speaker  by 
the  arm. 

"The  child  of  oppression,  madam." 

"But  you  are  so  like — your  story  is  so  like ," 

faltered  Lady  Oranmore — 

"Like  the  story  of  many  another  crushed  heart  and 
fallen  race  in  this  unhappy  land,"  the  stranger  coldly 
rejoined.  "Nay,  if  fame  speaks  rightly,  lady,  even 
among  your  own  kith  and  kin,  such  things  have  hap- 
pened before  now." 

Lady  Oranmore  dropped  the  arm  she  held,  and 
breathed  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

"Stay  with  me,  child,"  she  said  at  last.  "If  you 
have  no  home,  no  relation,  no  friend,  you  shall  find  all 
these  in  me,  and  more." 

Moved,  it  would  seem,  by  a  sudden  impulse,  the 
girl  stepped  forward,  knelt  down,  and  kissed  Lady 
Oranmore's  hand.  There  was  nothing  abject  either  in 


BLIND  AGNESE  83 

the  look  or  manner  with  which  this  lowly  action  was 
performed,  although  there  was  something  of  humility 
(all  the  more  touching,  perhaps,  for  the  proud  heart 
from  whence  it  came),  mingling  with  the  deep  and  pas- 
sionate gratitude  by  which  it  was  inspired. 

"Stay  with  me,"  repeated  Lady  Oranmore,  earn- 
estly, as  she  felt  the  girl's  warm  tears  falling  on  her 
hand. 

"I  thank  you,  madam,  for  the  kind  thought  and  the 
kind  word ;  but  God  is  good,  and  He  has  not  left  me 
friendless.  And  as  for  my  home,  it  is  better  than  His, 
who  had  no  spot  whereon  to  lay  His  head;  and  so  it 
is  surely  good  enough  for  one  who  would  fain,  though 
she  does  not,  follow  in  his  footsteps." 

"Indeed  but  you  do,  though,"  said  Agnese,  for  the 
first  time  joining  in  the  conversation.  "You  bore  the 
hard  word  and  the  hard  blow  for  me  this  very  day; 
and  surely,  that  was  what  he  would  have  done — has 
done  already  for  us  all." 

"No,  I  do  not,"-  said  the  girl  sadly.  "He  prayed  for 
his  persecutors,  and,  God,  help  me,  I  little  love  the 
man  who  made  me  an  orphan." 

She  kissed  Agnese,  and  pressed  Lady  Oranmore's 
hand  once  more  to  her  heart.' 

"May  God  keep  you  and  guard  you ;  and,  surely,  He 
who  would  not  break  the  bruised  reed,  or  quench  the 
smoking  flax,  will  give  a  blessing,  if  even  for  your 
kindness  this  day  to  a  nameless  creature." 

"Stay  with  me,"  Lady  Oranmore  once  more  whis- 
pered through  her  tears. 

"I  cannot,  madam;  I  am  wanted  and  waited  for 
elsewhere.  Yet,  pardon  me  if  I  add  another  word:  it 


84  BLIND  AGNESE 

is  about  the  child.  Be  not  worse  to  her  than  Squire 
Netterville.  He  might  strike  the  body,  he  could  not 
harm  the  soul.  You  can,  madam,  and  you  will,  if,  for 
her  worldly  interests,  you  seek  to  warp  her  conscience. 
She  is  a  Catholic;  in  God's  name  let  her  remain  a 
Catholic  still." 

"She  shall,"  said  Lady  Oranmore. 

"It  is  well,  madam.  And  in  His  name  I  thank  you, 
who  said,  in  behalf  of  the  little  ones  He  loved  so 
well — 'He  that  shall  scandalize  one  of  these  little  ones, 
that  believe  in  me,  it  were  better  for  him,  that  a  mill- 
stone should  be  hanged  about  his  neck,  and  that  he 
should  be  drowned  in  the  depth  of  the  sea.'  " 


CHAPTER  IV 

Ave  Mary!  night  is  shielding 

In  its  darkness,  earth  and  sea — • 
Yet,  ere  yet,  to  slumber  yielding, 

Lift  we  up  our  souls  to  thee. 
Forehead  brent,  and  wrinkled  brow, 

Voice  of   age,   and  infancy, 
All  are  turned  upon  thee  now — 

All  are  whispering  prayer  to  thee 
All,  if  not  in  careless  gladness, 

Still  mid  thoughts  that  make  it  be 
Sweeter,  far,  to  share  thy  sadness, 

Than  to  smile  apart  from  thee. 

Ave  Mary!  night  is  shielding 
In  its  darkness,  earth  and  sea — 

Yet,  ere  yet,  to  slumber  yielding, 
Lift  we  all  our  souls  to  thee. 

ClNG  to  me  again,  dear  Grace.     Never  have  I 
heard  music  that  I  loved  so  well,  since  the  night 
poor  Rosalie  went  up  to  heaven." 

Agnese  was  seated,  as  usual,  on  her  summer  seat; 
but  this  time  she  was  not  alone.  Her  unknown  de- 
fendress  was  at  her  side,  for,  though  she  obstinately 
refused  to  return  to  Oranmore  Castle,  she  often  met 
the  blind  child  upon  the  cliffs  near  to  St.  Bride's 
churchyard,  and  there  she  would  sit  or  walk  with  her 
for  hours,  and  sing  her  hymns,  tell  her  tales  of  mar- 
tyrs and  of  saints,  and  speak  to  her  in  tones  so  full  of 
love  and  sweetness,  that,  in  her  own  despite,  the  lat- 
ter was  forced  to  confess  the  nameless  Grace  had  be- 

8S 


86  BLIND  AGNESE 

come  dearer  to  her  than  any  one  on  earth  besides — 
dearer  than  Lady  Oranmore — than  Francesco — or 
even,  she  hardly  dared  (it  seemed  so  like  ingratitude) 
to  say  it,  than  poor,  old  Benita,  the  voluntary  protec- 
tress of  her  forsaken  infancy. 

GRACE'S  SONG 

Oh!  Erin,  my  country,  beloved  of  the  sea, 

Which  clasps  not  an  island  more  beauteous  than  thee; 

Shall  I  tell  of  thy  glories,  or  weep  for  the  day 

When,  like  snow  in  the  sunshine,  they  melted  away? 

Or  say,  shall  I  sing  of  thy  joy,  when  that  sea 

Bore  a  saviour,  a  saint,  and  apostle  to  thee: 

And,  sole  amid  nations,  thou  beautiful  isle, 

The  cross  that  he  preached  was  received  with  a  smile? 

Yes!  hallowed  for  ever — thrice  hallowed  the  spot, 

Where  the  blood  of  the  martyr  besprinkled  it  not; 

And  religion  was  seen  for  the  first  time  below, 

Not  a  stain  on  her  garments,  or  shade  on  her  brow. 

"No!  I  cannot  sing  that;  and  it  is  not  true,  now," 
said  Grace,  suddenly  breaking  off  her  song.  "Woe  is 
me!  the  cross  has  been  well  drenched  in  blood  since 
the  day  when  St.  Patrick  bore  it  in  peaceful  triumph 
through  the  land.  Well,  well !  it  is  not  we  who  have 
shed  it ;  and  it  is  better  to  be  the  children  of  persecu- 
tion than  its  parent." 

"Dearest  Grace,  how  strange  you  are!  One  while 
so  gentle  and  so  sad,  and  then  so — so " 

"So  fiery  and  so  passionate — is  it  so,  my  little  sis- 
ter?" 

For  by  this  affectionate  appellation,  the  Irish  girl 
had,  early  in  their  acquaintance,  learned  to  address 
Agnese. 


BLIND  AGNESE  87 

"No!  no!  not  quite  that.  But  still  you  are  a  mys- 
tery; even  Lady  Oranmore  says  she  cannot  under- 
stand you." 

"Lady  Oranmore !    What  does  she  know  of  me  ?" 

"Nothing!  but  she  would  give  a  great  deal  to  know 
something.  She  says  you  have  interested  her  strangely." 

"And  what  says  our  little  sister?"  said  Grace,  play- 
fully, and  yet  with  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  her  manner. 

"What  can  she  say  but  that  she  loves  you  dearly, 
for  your  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  sweet 
hymns  you  sing ;  but  most  of  all,  for  the  sake  of  Him 
whom  you  know  and  worship  as  she  does  herself." 

"No!  not  quite  as  you  do,  dear  Agnese;  for  you 
worship  Him  in  his  own  spirit  of  meekness,  while  I 
bring  Him  but  a  proud  and  angry  heart,  which,  God 
help  me,  I  often  find  it  difficult  to  subdue." 

"But  no  one  has  done  me  any  wrong,  and  so  I  have 
nothing  to  subdue;  and  then,  they  say,  the  blind  are 
always  patient." 

And,  as  ever  happened  when  she  alluded  to  her 
blindness,  the  voice  of  Agnese  became  so  full  of 
plaintive  melody,  you  felt  as  if  her  soul  was  rather 
steeped  in  heavenly  sweetness,  than  herself  grown 
calm  in  the  endurance  of  her  sorrow. 

"I  wish,  then,  I  was  blind,"  said  her  companion, 
quickly;  "for  then,  perhaps,  I  should  be  patient  also." 

"There  is  a  blindness  for  you  also,  Grace.  If  you 
choose  to  take  it,  close  your  eyes  to  yourself.  Open 
them  to  Jesus.  Behold  His  sufferings  if  you  will,  but 
blind  yourself  to  your  own." 

"And  that  is  what  I  am  trying  to  do ;  but  then,  see 
you,  little  sister,  I  am  like  a  child  playing  at  blind- 


88  BLIND  AGNESE 

man's  buff:  I  bind  my  eyes  willingly,  yet  I  cannot 
help  sometimes  taking  a  peep  from  under  the  ban- 
dage." 

"But  surely  it  is  sweet  to  suffer  for  the  sake  of 
Jesus." 

"Yes,  dear  Agnese,  in  one's  own  person,  very  sweet 
to  suffer,"  said  Grace,  eagerly,  and  there  was  no 
touch  of  human  pride  in  the  lofty  enthusiasm  of  her 
look  and  tone.  "Very  sweet  it  is  to  say,  and  feel,  'I 
might  be  rich,  and  I  am  poor ;  I  might  move  among  the 
lofty  of  the  land,  and  lo!  I  am  a  beggar,  an  outcast, 
a  wanderer  on  its  surface.'  My  God!"  she  added, 
rising  from  her  seat,  and  looking  like  a  beautiful  in- 
spiration, as  she  cast  her  eyes  upward  and  proceeded — 
"it  is  sweet  to  suffer  thus  for  Thee;  to  suffer  in  one- 
self, and  by  oneself;  but  it  is  hard  to  endure  it  in 
those  we  love  better  than  ourselves — harder  still  to 
look  upon  the  man  who  did  it,  and  not  to  feel  all  one's 
human  nature  up  in  arms  against  him." 

"And  against  yourself,"  suggested  Agnese  gently. 

"And  that  is  very  true,  my  sweet  Agnese.  I  feel  my 
anger  does  deeper  injury  to  myself  than  to  my  human 
foe." 

"Forgive  him,  dearest  Grace !  perhaps  of  him  also, 
Jesus  would  have  said — He  knows  not  what  he  does." 

For  a  moment  the  young  girl  looked  as  if  she 
thought  her  foeman  knew  very  well  indeed  what  he 
was  about;  but  she  tried  to  shake  off  the  feeling  and 
the  look;  and  then  she  said,  with  all  the  truth  of  her 
generous  heart — 

"From  my  very  soul  I  do  forgive  him,  and  morning 
and  evening  I  pray  for  him ;  and  not  for  him  alone,  but 


BLIND  AGNESE  89 

for  all  (and  their  name  is  legion)  who  have  done  us 
wrong." 

"You  pray — ah,  dearest  Grace,  where  do  you  pray  ? 
How  often  have  I  asked  in  vain  this  question,  and  yet 
Lady  Oranmore  says,  there  is  no  law  now  against 
the  free  exercise  of  religion." 

"No,  Agnese,  but  there  is  one  against  large  as- 
semblies of  people;  you  know  rebellion  is  rife  through 
the  land,  and  our  doughty  militiamen  are  not  always 
so  discriminating  as  to  make  it  certain  they  would 
not  mistake  for  a  political  meeting  one  solely  intended 
for  the  purpose  of  worship." 

"But  surely  not  if  it  were  held  in  a  church?" 

"Church — church,"  repeated  Grace  impatiently,  "I 
tell  you  we  have  not  a  church  left  standing  within 
twenty  miles,  and  when  we  do  meet  to  pray,  it  must 
be  by  the  hill  side,  or  the  sea  shore,  or  in  the  fields, 
or  the  caverns  of  the  islands — Church,  church !  Come 
with  me,  and  I  will  show  you  how,  even  in  the  be- 
ginning, they  treated  such  of  our  churches  as  they 
thought  it  not  worth  their  while  to  steal ;  and  then,  lit- 
tle sister  mine,  you  will  no  longer  wonder  if  a  church 
has  become  a  kind  of  religious  luxury,  to  which  in  this 
part  of  the  island  we  are  as  yet  almost  strangers." 

She  took  Agnese's  hand,  and  led  her  by  a  rocky 
path  up  to  a  ruin,  perched  picturesquely  enough  on 
the  very  brow  of  the  hill. 

"See  here,  Agnese!  But  I  forget  you  cannot  see; 
well,  these  ruined,  blackened  walls  around  us  were 
once  a  church." 

"A  church — a  real,  real  church!"  cried  Agnese, 
with  a  look  of  most  joyful  surprise. 


90  BLIND  AGNESE 

"A  real  church,"  repeated  Grace,  "and  you  may 
kiss  the  ground,  Agnese,  for  it  once  was  steeped  in  the 
blood  of  martyrs.  A  hundred  years  ago,  or  more," 
she  continued,  "and  this  was  a  stately  building. 
Neither  art  nor  labour  had  been  spared  in  its  erection. 
Perhaps,  like  the  Israelites  of  old,  men  gave  their  time 
and  talents — women,  their  ornaments  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver, their  rings,  their  bracelets,  their  costly  stuffs, 
purple  and  fine  linen,  for  the  enrichment  of  a  temple 
to  the  Living  God.  They  built  it  for  themselves,  and 
by  themselves;  and  so,  good,  easy  folk,  they  thought 
they  had  a  right  to  worship  in  it  as  they  pleased.  They 
were  mistaken,  however,  and  so  they  soon  discovered 
to  their  cost.  It  was  early  of  a  Sunday  morning,  and 
the  blue  waters  of  the  Atlantic  flashed  and  glimmered 
beneath  the  rising  sun,  and  the  white  cliffs  looked 
whiter  still,  and  the  very  flowers  seemed  to  spring 
more  gladly  from  the  turf,  as  if  rejoicing  in  the  glor- 
ies of  the  summer  tide.  It  was  a  Sunday  morning, 
and  thousands  came  thronging  down  from  the  moun- 
tains, and  thousands  came  flocking  up  from  the  val- 
leys, every  cabin  gave  its  quota  of  inhabitants,  men 
and  women,  and  children,  infants  even  in  their 
mothers'  arms,  to  swell  the  living  tide  which  poured 
towards  the  newly  erected  church  upon  the  cliffs ;  and 
happy  young  hearts  there  were  among  them,  and  happy 
old  ones  too,  I  dare  say,  for  the  bishop  was  to  be 
there  that  morning,  and  to  give  it  the  Sacrament  of 
Confirmation,  the  strength  so  needed  for  the  storm  of 
persecution,  which  just  then  had  begun  to  sweep  over 
the  land.  Some  few  there  might  perhaps  even  be, 
who  came  to  receive  the  rite,  after  having  wept  and 


BLIND  AGNESE  91 

done  penance  over  former  vacillations  from  the  faith, 
but  the  holy  chrism  would  be  also  poured  upon  brows, 
from  whence  sin  had  not  yet  dashed  the  innocent  dews 
of  their  baptism,  for  in  those  days  of  uncertainty  and 
tribulation,  children,  almost  infants  by  their  age,  were 
often  admitted  for  Confirmation,  either  that  they 
might  not  die  without  it,  or  that  they  might  derive 
from  it  the  courage  they  were  often  called  upon  to 
exert,  even  in  their  tenderest  years.  The  church  was, 
therefore,  crowded.  Within  it  there  was  peace,  and 
love,  and  hope,  and  prayer ! — without  it ! — but  I  must 
not  anticipate.  Enough  that  information  had  been 
given,  of  the  bishop,  and  the  Mass,  and  the  holy  rite ; 
and  suddenly,  in  one  of  the  pauses  of  the  service,  a 
sound,  the  well-known  tramp  of  the  soldiery,  was 
heard.  People  began  to  listen  in  breathless  silence — 
the  bishop  ceased  to  speak — the  bell  was  rung  no 
longer,  and  still  the  sound  without  grew  louder — the 
tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  more  distinct  upon  the  turf.  At 
length  it  seemed  almost  under  the  walls,  and  then  it 
ceased,  and  the  shrill  notes  of  a  bugle  rang  through 
the  air.  Some  one  looked  forth  from  the  window. 
Mother  of  God!  the  Cromwellians  were  upon  them! 
They  were  unarmed,  therefore  they  did  not  think  to 
fight,  neither  did  they  seek  to  fly.  They  knew  their 
doom  too  well.  There  was  no  hope  for  them  beyond 
the  church ;  so  they  barricaded  the  doors,  and  crowded 
round  the  altar,  where  mercy  alone  might  be  found 
for  them.  Now  mark  you,  Agnese,  if  these  men  were 
rebels,  the  soldiers  might  have  broken  open  the  doors, 
dispersed  the  people,  or  taken  them  to  prison;  or  if 
they  were  wild  beasts,  they  might  have  fired  in  at  the 


92  BLIND  AGNESE 

v 

window,  and,  packed  and  cabined  as  they  were,  ten 
rounds  of  shot  would  have  sent  them  to  their  doom. 
But  they  were  neither  rebels  nor  wild  beasts — they 
were  simply  Papists.  Prison  would  have  been  too 
easy,  and  such  a  death  too  speedy.  There  was  a  bet- 
ter vengeance  in  the  heads  and  hearts  of  Cromwell's 
band  of  ruffians.  Higher  than  door  or  window,  they 
piled  up  wood,  and  hay,  and  straw,  and  every  combus- 
tible thing  they  could  lay  their  hands  on,  and,  with 
a  wild  shout  of  triumph,  set  the  whole  of  it  in  a  blaze. 
The  red  light  upon  the  windows  soon  told  the  fell  deed 
to  those  within.  At  first  they  sat  gazing  upon  one 
another,  like  men  stupefied  by  terror,  and  then,  as  if 
moved  by  one  simultaneous  impulse,  they  all  knelt 
down  at  the  feet  of  their  bishop,  men  and  women,  im- 
ploring absolution;  children,  so  lately  full  of  childish 
joy,  now  screaming,  and  struggling,  and  clinging  to  his 
feet.  Good  old  man!  he  wept  over  them,  and  blest 
them;  but  tears  might  not  quench  that  funeral  pile! 
The  windows  soon  melted  away  in  the  heat,  and  then 
the  red  fire  poured  rapidly  in,  flying  like  a  living  crea- 
ture along  the  walls,  taking  the  rafters  of  the  ceiling, 
licking  up  everything  it  found  that  might  give  its  fury 
food,  until  the  soldiery  without,  no  longer  seemed  so 
terrible  as  the  circling  flames  within,  and  half  mad 
with  heat,  and  smoke,  and  terror,  the  miserable  victims 
sought  escape  by  flight.  And  now  a  terrible  scene 
ensued,  as  it  has  been  described  by  one  who  shared 
in  its  barbarities ;  wretches,  scorched,  and  burned,  and 
blackened,  beyond  the  semblance  of  human  beings, 
shouting,  screaming,  raving  in  their  madness,  the 
mighty  crowd  swaying  hither  and  thither  in  its  various 


BLIND  AGNESE  93 

efforts  at  escape,  as  some  rushed  to  the  gateway  (the 
doors  had  long  since  been  burnt  into  cinders),  and 
others  clambered  up  to  the  window  to  cast  themselves 
down,  and  each  and  all  were  driven  back  into  the  piti- 
less flames,  at  the  point  of  the  yet  more  pitiless  sol- 
dier's lance.  At  length  the  shout  and  scream  were 
heard  no  more,  and  silence  fell  on  the  multitude — the 
silence  of  despair;  and  then  the  bishop  rose — he  had 
hitherto  remained  prostrate  at  the  foot  of  the  altar, 
and  over  the  dead  and  dying,  the  faithful  shepherd 
looked.  They  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  their  agony 
and  fear,  they  knew  him,  and  guessing  his  intention, 
bowed  down  their  heads  to  receive  his  absolution. 
They  were  spoken — those  words  which  gave  them 
hopes  of  the  peace  in  heaven  they  had  never  known 
on  earth;  and  then  the  bishop  once  more  lifted  up 
his  arms  to  impart  his  final  benediction,  and  in  this  at- 
titude, and  while  yet  the  words  were  quivering  on  his 
lips,  he  fell  down  dead  before  them.  In  an  instant 
afterwards,  the  whole  of  the  building  gave  way  with 
a  terrible  crash,  and  all  was  over. 

"This  is  the  tradition  of  the  country;  it  is  but  one 
tale  amid  a  thousand  others,  and  it  has  been  repeated, 
even  in  these  our  days  of  enlightened  civilization.  Not 
twenty  miles  from  these  very  ruins,  and  not  three 
months  from  the  hour  in  which  you  have  listened  to 
this  story,  three  Catholic  chapels  have  been  burned  to 
the  ground,  by  men  who  write  themselves  worthy  de- 
scendants of  Cromwell's  ruthless  soldiers.  And  now, 
dear  Agnese,  see  you  not  how  our  forefathers  were 
forced  to  worship  God  in  secret  and  in  lonely  places, 
and  can  you  wonder  if  we,  their  children,  have  often 


94  BLIND  AGNESE 

neither  hearts  nor  means  left  to  do  otherwise  than 
they  did?" 

"Dear  Grace,"  said  Agnese,  "I  could  almost  fancy 
I  was  listening  to  a  tale  of  the  old  Christian  martyrs." 

"The  martyrs  of  the  old  Christian  times  were  better 
off  than  we.  They  suffered  for  their  faith,  and  their 
very  foes  denied  them  not  their  crown.  Verily!  ver- 
ily! ours  have  been  wiser  in  their  generation.  They 
have  robbed  us  of  the  glory  of  our  martyrdom  to 
clothe  us  in  its  shame.  True,  they  persecute  us  as 
Papists,  but  then,  it  is  as  rebels  that  they  hang  us.  It 
was  so  in  England  also.  They  did  not  put  a  man  to 
torture  and  to  death  for  being  a  Catholic,  but  only 
for  refusing  an  oath  which  no  Catholic  could  in  con- 
science take." 

"And  yet,  at  Oranmore  Castle,  I  have  heard  them 
talk  so  often,  as  if  we  were  the  persecutors,  and  they 
the  persecuted,"  replied  Agnese. 

"Yes!  poor,  injured  lambs,"  said  Grace,  laughing 
through  her  tears.  "They  preach  liberty  of  conscience, 
and  then  show  us  fire  and  faggot  when  we  dare  to 
take  it,  yet  I  ought  not  to  grumble  at  these  laws,  for 
they  made  a  Catholic  of  my  grandfather." 

"I  should  have  thought  they  would  have  kept  him  a 
Protestant." 

"They  did  not,  however.  He  was  travelling  for  the 
first  time  through  the  north,  for  he  had  been  educated 
in  England,  and  he  came  suddenly  upon  a  vast  as- 
semblage of  people,  hearing  Mass  in  an  open  field, 
every  man  bare-headed,  and  upon  his  knees,  although 
the  mud  was  deep  beneath,  and  the  rain  descending  in 
torrents  from  above.  He  went  home  and  became  a 


BLIND  AGNESE  95 

Catholic,  for  he  said  there  could  be  no  true  religion 
upon  earth  if  the  faith  which  produced  such  fruits 
were  false." 

"I  do  not  wonder!"  said  Agnese.  "Oh,  that  I  also 
might  be  present  at  such  a  scene!" 

"Dear  Agnese !  I  have  told  you  why,  just  now,  we 
fear  to  meet  in  public.  There  is  yet  another  reason. 
The  priest,  the  only  one  now  left  in  this  immediate 
district,  has  most  unjustly  become  suspected  as  a  rebel 
and  a  favourer  of  rebellion,  and  informations  to  this 
effect  have  been  lodged  against  him." 

"But  he  is  not — he  cannot  be  a  rebel!"  cried  Ag- 
nese. 

"Far  from  it.  He  holds  rebellion  in  abhorrence,  as 
a  foul  offence  against  the  laws  both  of  God  and  man, 
and  it  is  mainly  owing  to  his  influence  that  the  people 
about  here  have  been  kept  from  joining  in  the  wild  cry 
of  vengeance  which,  north  and  south,  and  east  and 
west,  is  sweeping  through  the  land.  He  knows  this, 
and  therefore  he  has  rejected  many  an  opportunity  of 
escape,  which  has  offered  itself,  to  foreign  shores.  He 
will  not  even  give  up  his  ministry  among  them,  though 
the  mere  fact  of  saying  Mass  to  some  hundreds  of 
people  must  lead  in  the  end  to  an  unfortunate  dis- 
covery. The  very  first  day  I  met  you,  Squire  Net- 
terville  was  almost  on  his  track;  and  if  I  had  not  kept 
him  in  play,  by  my  idle  chatter,  the  father  would  have 
been  caught  long  before  he  had  reached  the  cave, 
where,  woe  is  me,  he  is  forced  to  find  a  home." 

"Ah!  that  is  the  reason  you  were  so  saucy  and  so 
brave,"  said  Agnese,  smiling. 

"Yes,  Agnese !  but  do  you  know  I  got  a  scolding  af- 


96  BLIND  AGNESE 

terwards?  The  father  said,  I  had  no  right  to  do  evil 
that  good  might  come  of  it,  or  to  work  up  the  wild 
passions  of  the  man  to  frenzy,  even  to  save  a  priest's 
neck  from  the  hangman's  rope;  so  you  see  I  had  my 
horse-whipping  for  nothing  after  all,  Agnese." 

"For  nothing,  except  the  pleasure  of  saving  him, 
dear  Grace." 

"Ah,  that  was  a  pleasure,  and  to  see  the  Squire 
tumble  into  the  ditch,  too,  was  an  agreeable  little  di- 
version of  its  kind,"  said  Grace,  laughing  merrily. 
"But  it  is  all  in  vain;  he  is  saving  hundreds  from  the 
certain  death  which  is  ever  the  consequence  of  rebel- 
lion, but  his  own  will  be  sacrificed  in  the  effort.  Well ! 
well !  we  must  not  repine.  The  Good  Shepherd  gives 
His  life  for  his  flock,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  good 
shepherd,  Padre  Francesco  is  the  man." 

"Francesco,  is  that  his  name  ?"  said  Agnese,  a  whole 
host  of  recollections  rushing  upon  her  mind — "but  not 
my  Francesco,"  she  added  with  a  sigh — "He  is  not  a 
priest." 

"Like  myself  he  is  without  a  name,  but  we  call  him 
Francesco,  because  he  was  ordained  in  Italy,  and  that 
was  the  name  he  took  in  the  religious  order  to  which 
he  belongs.  And  now,  see  you  not,  little  sister,  what 
a  dilemma  I  am  in  ?  I  would  trust  you  as  myself,  but 
I  fear,  if  I  take  you  to  our  rock-cave  chapel,  Lady 
Oranmore  may  miss  you,  and  her  servants  track  you 
out." 

"I  see,"  said  Agnese,  "and  I  must  submit."  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  tears  from  her 
sightless  eyes  trickled  slowly  through  her  fingers. 

"My  child,  my  child,"  cried  her  companion,  "I  can- 


BLIND  AGNESE  97 

not  bear  to  see  you  weep;  you  are  unhappy,  dear 
Agnese." 

"How  can  I  be  otherwise,  so  far  from  my  own  dear 
land,  in  the  very  bosom  of  which  the  sweet  Jesus 
dwells,  and  what  is  there  for  the  blind  child  but  Jesus  ? 
You  have  the  flowers  and  the  fruits,  the  bright  blue 
skies,  the  stormy  waters,  and  the  pleasant  earth — but 
Jesus  is  all  in  all  to  me.  My  God  and  my  all!  my 
present  consolation  and  my  future  joy !  Oh !  that  the 
dove  would  descend  and  give  Him  to  my  prayers !" 

"You  shall  have  Him,"  cried  Grace,  suddenly; 
"weep  no  more,  my  own  Agnese,  but  meet  me  to- 
morrow in  St.  Bride's  churchyard." 

"Ah!  no,  dear  Grace,  not  for  worlds  would  I  en- 
danger the  safety  of  the  father  of  the  flock." 

"It  will  not  be  endangered,"  said  Grace.  "I  have 
thought  of  all — go  to  Lady  Oranmore;  tell  her  all  I 
have  said  to  you.  Say  to  her  that  I  know  her  to  be 
honour  itself,  and  that  our  secret  will  be  safe  in  her 
keeping;  and  tell  her  furthermore,  that  the  life  of 
your  nearest  relative  upon  earth  is  involved  in  this 
confidence,  for  the  priest  is  your  uncle,  Agnese,  the 
brother  of  your  father,  and,  Mother  of  God!  I  can 
keep  the  secret  no  longer,  I  am  your  sister."  The 
.words  had  scarcely  burst  from  her  lips,  before  Agnese 
was  in  her  arms,  and  for  a  long  time  the  young  sis- 
ters, so  long  separated,  and  so  strangely  re-united, 
wept  together  in  silence.  "Yes,  dear  Agnese,"  said 
Grace,  at  last  speaking  through  her  tears,  "the  tall, 
grave-looking  man,  who  rescued  you  from  the  crowd 
at  Dover,  and  who  would  not  speak  Italian,  lest  his 
own  mission  should  be  endangered  by  any  discovery, 


98  BLIND  AGNESE 

of  his  calling,  was  your  father's  brother.  After  the 
persecution  which  drove  your  father  and  my  father, 
Agnese,  from  his  native  land,  this  brother,  who,  being 
next  in  age,  might  have  claimed  the  property  had  he 
chosen  to  change  his  religion,  resolved,  on  the  con- 
trary, upon  renouncing  the  little  that  was  left  him, 
and  becoming  a  priest,  in  hopes  of  supplying  the  spiri- 
tual wants  of  the  poor  tenants  of  Netterville.  Be- 
fore, however,  he  went  to  Italy,"  continued  Grace 
Netterville,  yielding  to  the  gay  humour  which  often 
found  her  even  in  her  tears,  "this  good  uncle  of  mine 
resolved  on  committing  a  petty  robbery " 

"Robbery !"  cried  Agnese,  with  a  look  of  horror. 

"Yes,  robbery,"  said  her  companion  laughing  out- 
right. "But  I  believe  he  could  not  have  been  hanged 
for  sheep-stealing,  seeing  it  was  only  a  poor  lamb  that 
he  abstracted." 

"But  what  good  could  the  theft  of  a  lamb  do  him, 
dear  Grace?" 

"Not  much  good  to  him,  certainly,  but  a  great  deal 
of  good  to  the  poor  animal  itself:  I  was  the  lamb, 
Agnese.  He  foresaw  that  my  grandmother,  Lady  Oran- 
more,  would  bring  me  up  in  the  religion  of  the 
worldly-wise,  so,  one  day,  when  I  was  playing  in  the 
shrubbery,  he  pounced  like  a  great  eagle  upon  me, 
and  bore  me  in  his  talons  to  a  convent  in  Italy,  where 
I  remained  for  many  years;  and  he  was  bringing  me 
from  thence  when  he  stumbled  upon  his  other  niece 
at  Dover.  He  did  not  then  know  who  you  were ;  but 
as  Lady  Oranmore  made  no  secret  of  your  story,  he 
found  it  out  soon  after  your  arrival  at  Oranmore :  and 
from  the  hour  when  he  gave  me  to  understand  I  had 


BLIND  AGNESE  99 

a  sister,  I  haunted  your  footsteps,  darling.  I  used  to 
follow  you  along  the  cliffs,  dreading,  at  every  turn, 
lest  you  should  miss  your  footsteps  and  tumble  over, 
and  I  be  deprived  of  my  little  sister.  And  I  used  to 
sit  beside  you  for  hours  in  the  churchyard  of  lone  St. 
Bride's,  longing — so  longing — to  take  you  into  my 
arms,  that  I  felt  it  quite  impossible  to  address  you 
coldly  as  a  stranger.  I  followed  you  even  to  Lady 
Oranmore's  church." 

''Into  her  church!" 

"To  it ;  not  into  it,  darling.  And  then,  indeed,  when 
I  found  your  religion  endangered,  I  resolved  to  speak 
out.  I  was  even  tempted  to  rob  Lady  Oranmore's 
sheep-fold  of  another  lamb ;  but  your  first  words  con- 
vinced me  there  was  no  need.  A  faith  so  vivid  I  had 
never  seen;  and  I  felt  directly  you  were  the  stuff  of 
which  a  martyr  might  be  made,  but  an  apostate  never." 

"But  surely  you  named  me  once?" 

"Yes !"  said  Grace,  laughing.  "Like  a  baby  with  a 
new  toy,  I  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  seeing  how 
it  would  sound  to  talk  to  you:  and  so  I  tried  to  say 
your  name  just  in  the  careless,  common-place  sort  of 
way  in  which  I  should  have  done  if  I  had  known 
you  all  my  life.  But,  bless  my  soul,  you  jumped  up 
and  looked  as  frightened  as  if  a  ghost  had  spoken  to 
you  out  of  the  grave  you  were  sitting  on.  I  declare 
I  caught  the  infection,  and  ran  away  much  faster 
than  I  should  have  done  if  a  ghost,  or  Squire  Net- 
terville  himself,  had  been  at  my  heels." 

"Squire  Netterville!  Grace,  Grace!  do  you  not 
know ?" 

"I — yes,  yes!  I  do  know,  Agnese.    He  is  the  third 


ioo  BLIND  AGNESE 

of  those  ill-fated  brothers — the  renegade  to  his  religion 
— the  traitor  to  his  blood — the  blot  on  his  escutcheon 
— the  stain  on  the  fair  name  of  Netterville  for  ever !" 

"Hush,  hush,  dear  Grace!  remember  he  is  our 
uncle." 

"It  is  true ;  and  I  am  silent.  But  how  did  you  know 
that — or  did  you  only  guess?" 

"Lady  Oranmore  told  me  long  ago.  And  now,  dear 
Grace " 

"Not  Grace  in  earnest,  sweet  sister  mine.  I  was 
called  after  my  mother,  and  my  name  is  May,  but  I 
thought  it  would  cause  Lady  Oranmore  to  suspect  me ; 
and  then,  you  know,  May  means  Mary,  and  she  was 
full  of  grace,  and  the  mother  of  grace  itself.  So  the 
name  was  not  ill-chosen;  only  it  did  not  suit  me  very 
well.  Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  have  called  myself 
Graceless  ?" 

"Indeed  I  don't,"  said  Agnese  earnestly ;  "and  I  was 
going  to  have  told  you,  my  gracious,  graceful  May, 
that  I  loved  your  invisible  presence  long  before  you 
said  a  word  to  me.  I  used  to  feel  as  if  my  guardian 
angel  was  seated  at  my  side." 

"Not  your  angel,  but  your  guardian  only,  dear  one. 
And  now,  adieu  until  to-morrow.  Meet  me  here  at 
six  o'clock,  and  I  will  bring  you  to  an  uncle  something 
better  than  Squire  Netterville,  and  a  grandmother  not 
better,  but  full  as  good  as  Lady  Oranmore." 

"A  grandmother,  dear  Grace?" 

"Yes,  Agnese!  the  mother  of  the  three  brothers  is 
still  alive.  She  had  a  high  spirit  and  a  noble  heart; 
and  when  she  found  the  part  her  youngest  born  had 
played  in  this  domestic  tragedy,  she  sent  him  word 


BLIND  AGNESE  101 

that  she  would  never  look  upon  his  face  again.  She 
would  neither  break  the  bread  nor  drink  the  cup  with 
one  who  was  a  renegade  to  God — a  traitor  to  his  blood. 
So  she  shook  the  dust  from  off  her  feet,  and  went 
forth  from  the  halls  of  Netterville  for  ever." 

"And  then,"  said  Agnese. 

"And  then,  like  her  eldest  son,  she  sought  first  a 
refuge  in  the  cottage  of  a  peasant,  but  finally  followed 
the  fortunes  of  Francesco,  in  whom  she  has  concen- 
trated the  affections  she  has  taken  from  his  brother. 
He  is,  indeed,  her  rich  consolation  for  the  disgrace 
which  has  fallen  on  her  name.  She  loves  him  as  a 
saint,  reveres  him  as  a  martyr ;  and  poor,  and  old,  and 
paralytic  as  she  is,  she  often  says  she  is  happier  with 
her  priestly  son  in  his  cave  by  the  sea-shore,  than 
ever  she  was  amid  the  rank  and  riches  of  her  sunnier 
hours." 

"And  you,  dear  Grace?  It  makes  me  sad  to  think 
that  you  should  have  so  poor  a  home,  while  I,  who 
have  really  been  used  to  poverty  from  my  childhood, 
am  set  at  my  ease  in  yonder  castle." 

"Console  yourself,  my  own  Agnese;  the  cottage  or 
the  cave,  by  the  wild  sea  waves,  is  the  home  of  my 
choice.  When  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to  leave  my  con- 
vent, in  order  to  nurse  my  dear,  old  grandmother,  my 
uncle  represented  to  me  the  sort  of  life  I  would  have 
to  lead,  and  she  herself  wrote  to  dissuade  me  from  the 
project.  But  I  answered  almost  in  the  words  of  Ruth: 
—The  land  that  shall  receive  thee  dying,  in  the  same 
will  I  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried :  the  Lord  do  so 
and  so  to  me,  and  add  more  also,  if  aught  but  death 
part  me  and  thee.'  And  never,  for  an  instant,  have 


102  BLIND  AGNESE 

I  repented  of  my  words.  But  my  task  is  nearly  over. 
She  is  very  old  now — broken  down,  perhaps,  less  by 
age  than  by  the  heavy  sorrow  which  has  come  upon 
her  through  her  children.  Every  day  may  be  her 
last ;  and  I  almost  pray  that  the  last  may  be  soon." 

"She  longs  to  see  Jesus,  I  suppose,"  said  Agnese, 
innocently. 

"It  is  not  that !  it  is  not  that !"  said  Grace  Netterville, 
clenching  her  hand,  and  speaking  through  her  closed 
teeth.  "But  he  will  soon  be  taken  in  their  toils;  and 
once  taken,  will  be  executed  by  martial  law — that  is 
to  say,  without  judge  or  jury — justice  or  mercy.  They 
have  marked  him  for  their  prey ;  and  oh !  how  I  trust 
she  may  be  dead,  if  it  be  only  one  day  or  hour,  before 
they  have  succeeded  in  hunting  him  to  his  doom. 
Think,  Agnese,  think  what  a  blow  for  the  mother's 
heart  to  know  that  her  second  Cain  has  shed  the  blood 
of  his  brother  Abel." 

"Good  God!  It  is,  then,  Squire  Netterville  who  is 
hunting  down  his  brother?" 

"It  is,  indeed,  he  who  has  lodged  information  of  a 
rebel-priest  lurking  in  the  neighbourhood.  But  O 
Agnese,"  cried  Grace,  speaking  with  a  kind  of  agony 
in  her  voice  and  manner,  "I  would  not  do  the  man 
injustice;  I  do  not  believe  he  knows  the  wrong  he  is 
doing ;  I  do  not  believe  he  knows  him  to  be  his  brother : 
and  sometimes,  I  have  half  been  moved  to  go  to  him 
and  say — he,  for  whose  neck  you  are  weaving  the 
hangman's  hope  is  the  son  of  your  mother.  But  then, 
I  dare  not  do  it:  I  could  not  risk  the  life  of  the  noble 
and  the  kind  upon  the  chance  repentance  of  such  a 
man." 


BLIND  AGNESE  103 

"O  Grace!  do  not  speak  of  him  so  proudly.  His 
sin  is  terrible — but  think  how  terrible  his  doom.  He 
has  cast  off  Jesus,  and  Jesus  has  abandoned  him  to 
the  devices  of  his  own  heart — even  to  the  unconscious 
seeking  of  his  brother's  blood." 

"Terrible!  terrible!  it  is,  indeed,  Agnese,"  said 
Grace,  sitting  down,  and  covering  her  face  with  both 
her  hands. 

"We  will  not  speak  proudly  or  harshly  of  him,"  the 
blind  child  continued,  kneeling  down  and  taking 
Grace  Netterville's  hand  in  hers.  "We  will  pity  and 
forgive  him ;  we  will  pray  for  him ;  we  will  even  love 
him,  for  the  sake  of  the  sweet  Jesus  who  loved  him 
once — who  loves  him,  perhaps,  even  at  this  instant, 
for  the  future  penance  by  which  he  will  repay  the  past 
sins  of  his  life." 

"Dear  Agnese,  what  a  sweet  little  saint  you  are," 
said  Grace,  stooping  reverently  to  kiss  her  forehead. 
"Would  that  I  could  feel  as  you  do." 

"We  will  pray  for  him,  most  especially  to-morrow," 
Agnese  went  on  to  say.  "We  will  pray  for  him  in  our 
wild  chapel  by  the  sea-shore,  when  Jesus  descends  in 
the  midst  of  us,  and  for  our  sakes  reposes  on  the  hard 
rock,  instead  of  the  golden  altars  to  which,  in  happier 
lands,  He  is  invited;  then  we  will  pray  to  Him  with 
all  our  hearts  and  souls  for  this  unhappy  man.  We 
will  say  to  Him — My  God,  I  give  thee  all,  my  own 
interests,  and  the  interests  of  all  who  are  dear  to 
me — my  hopes,  and  fears,  and  joys,  and  sorrows ;  the 
life  of  this  dear  uncle,  and  the  heart-break  of  his 
mother.  I  abandoned  them  to  thee ;  I  will  ask  nothing 
for  them  or  for  myself,  only  grant  me,  in  exchange, 


104  BLIND  AGNESE 

the  conversion  of  him  who  has  caused  as  all  our  sor- 
row." 

"Surely,  dear  child,  He  will  grant  you  such  a  prayer 
as  that." 

"Surely  He  will,"  answered  the  Little  Spouse,  with 
a  look  of  most  loving  confidence.  "Other  things  the 
sweet  Jesus  may  deny  us ;  but  mercy  he  never  refuses, 
whether  we  ask  it  for  ourselves  or  for  another." 

"You  put  me  to  the  blush,  Agnese.  I  thought  I  had 
forgiven  him  long  ago,  but  I  see  it  was  only  with  half 
a  heart,  while  you  have  done  it  with  a  heart  and  a 
half.  Well,  you  will  see  to-morrow  how  fervently  I 
will  pray  for  the  man's  conversion." 

"Do  not  call  him  'man/  that  way,"  pleaded  Agnese. 
"Do,  dear  Grace,  try  and  think  of  him  as  your  uncle, 
and  yet  more  as  the  creature  of  Christ  Jesus  crucified, 
who  suffered  for  him  and  died  for  him  as  well  as  for 
us  all." 

"Yes!  it  is  very  true,"  thought  Grace  Netterville, 
as  she  stept  into  the  little  boat  which  was  to  convey 
her  to  her  home  among  the  rocks.  "Squire  Netterville 
is  the  creature  of  Christ  crucified,  and  my  father's 
brother ;  my  own  uncle,  and  the  uncle  of  the  only  real 
little  angel  I  ever  met  with  on  earth — and  that  is  Ag- 
nese." 


CHAPTER  V 

TTHE  day  was  dark  and  stormy,  the  boat  tossed 
roughly  on  the  waters,  and  Agnese  shivered  with 
fear  and  cold,  as  the  spray  dashed  wildly  over  her  face 
and  person. 

"You  are  cold,  Agnese,"  said  her  sister,  the  sole 
other  occupant  of  the  boat,  and  manager  of  its  oars. 

"I  am  afraid,"  the  blind  child  answered;  "it  seems 
so  strange  to  be  tossing  up  and  down  so  wildly,  and 
not  to  know  the  reason  why." 

Grace  Netterville  took  the  cloak  off  her  own  shoul- 
ders and  put  it  round  her  sister. 

"There,  dear  child,"  she  said,  in  her  most  cheerful 
voice,  "with  your  pretty  dress  beneath,  and  my  old 
frieze  above,  you  look  like  a  travelling  fairy,  or  a  prin- 
cess in  disguise.  But  would  you  rather  I  should  put 
back  to  land?  It  is  a  wild  morning,  and  almost  too 
rough  for  you." 

"Oh,  no,"  cried  Agnese,  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion ;  "I  am  going  to  Him,  so  I  ought  not  to  be  afraid." 

"You  need  not,  dear  one.  Did  not  Peter  walk  to 
Him  in  safety  over  the  stormy  waters?  and  why  not 
you?" 

"Thank  you,  Grace,  for  putting  me  in  mind  of  that ; 
I  will  think  of  it,  and  try  and  not  be  afraid  again." 

Grace  said  no  more,  for  the  storm  was  rising  fast, 
and  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  manage  her  little  vessel ; 
at  last,  however,  she  succeeded  in  nearing  the  island 

105 


io6  BLIND  AGNESE 

towards  which  its  course  had  been  directed,  and  in 
guiding  it  into  a  creek,  serving  as  an  entrance  to  one 
of  those  caves  everywhere  so  common  on  that  part  of 
the  Irish  coast,  and  with  which  this  little  island,  in  par- 
ticular, was  almost  honeycombed  throughout. 

The  sea  penetrated  a  considerable  way  beneath  the 
rocks,  but  they  were  now  floating  upon  smooth  waters, 
and  a  few  lazy  strokes  of  the  oar  sufficed  to  bring 
them  to  the  shallows,  where  a  strong  hand  laid  hold 
of  the  boat  and  drew  it  high  and  dry  upon  the  sands, 
and  Grace  Netterville  jumped  out. 

"God  save  you,  Dan,"  she  said  to  the  man,  at  the 
same  time  assisting  her  little  sister  to  follow  her  ex- 
ample. 

"The  same  to  you  kindly,  mavourneen,"  replied  the 
man;  'you  have  had  a  rough  passage  of  it,  Miss  May." 

"Aye,  aye,"  rejoined  Grace,  or  May,  as  we  ought 
now  to  call  her ;  "the  white  horses  are  playing  strange 
pranks  out  yonder  upon  the  ocean." 

"  'Tis  a  spring-tide,  too,"  said  Dan,  "and  if  the 
wind  continue  in  this  quarter,  his  reverence  won't 
read  Mass  dry-shod  this  blessed  mornin',  I'm  think- 
ing." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Grace,  with  her  merriest  laugh, 
""his  reverence  can  change  his  shoes  afterwards,  and 
most  of  his  congregation,  God  help  them,  have  no 
shoes  to  change." 

"Merry  Asthur,  to  me,  if  you  ever  said  a  truer 
word  nor  that,  Miss  May,"  said  Dan,  holding  his  own 
bare  foot  to  the  light  of  the  bog-wood  torch  which 
he  had  kindled  during  this  conversation,  and  now  pre- 
sented to  his  young  mistress. 


BLIND  AGNESE  107 

May  took  it,  and  twining  her  other  arm  round  her 
little  sister's  waist,  and  whispering  to  her  not  to  be 
afraid,  drew  her  forward  into  the  cavern.  It  grew 
very  dark  as  they  proceeded;  and  had  it  not  been 
for  her  blazing  torch,  May  Netterville  might  have 
found  some  difficulty  in  steering  clear  alike  of  the 
sharp-pointed  rocks  everywhere  scattered  around,  and 
of  the  pools  of  water,  some  of  them  looking  fearfully 
black  and  deep,  which  had  been  left  there  by  the  high 
tides.  Presently  the  dark  wall  of  rock  receded  upon 
either  side,  springing  up  into  wide  and  lofty  arches 
over  their  heads,  and  instead  of  the  stony  surface 
which  had  wounded  her  feet  sadly,  Agnese  felt  she 
was  walking  on  smooth  sands,  though  even  these  in- 
dicated, by  their  unusual  moisture,  the  presence  of 
the  ocean  at  no  very  distant  period  of  time.  An  enor- 
mous mass  of  black  stone,  perfectly  detached  from 
the  surrounding  rocks,  stood  in  the  midst  of  this  kind 
of  cavern  chamber;  it  resembled,  in  some  degree,  a 
boulder- stone  of  unusual  size,  only  the  back  part, 
which  rose  considerably  higher  than  that  in  front,  was 
fashioned  into  something  of  the  likeness  of  a  rude 
stone  cross,  while  the  lower  portion  was  quite  flat 
enough  to  admit  of  its  serving  for  an  altar,  a  purpose 
to  which  the  lighted  candles,  in  their  tin  or  wooden 
candlesticks,  and  the  few  poor  vestments  laid  upon 
it,  sufficiently  indicated  it  was  now  to  be  devoted. 
Behind  this  Druid-like  looking  altar,  in  a  little  nook, 
where  she  was  completely  screened  from  observation, 
May  Netterville  placed  her  sister,  kneeling  down  at 
the  same  time  beside  her,  and  still  holding  her  round 
the  waist,  in  order  to  give  her  courage.  She  had 


io8  BLIND  AGNESE 

previously  cast  away  the  bog-wood  torch,  which  a 
wide  fissure  in  the  rocks  above  caused  to  be  no  longer 
needed.  Daniel,  however,  was  apparently  of  a  dif- 
ferent opinion  regarding  its  necessity,  for  he  picked 
it  up,  while  it  was  yet  smoking  on  the  floor,  re- 
lighted it  from  one  of  the  candles  burning  on  the 
altar,  and  very  gravely  presented  it  to  his  young 
mistress. 

"What  is  it,  Daniel?"  said  May,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, a  little  pettishly.  "Why  waste  the  good  bog- 
wood?  I  don't  want  it  here." 

"Maybe  not,  Miss  May,  but  somebody  is  wanting 
you  for  all  that.  Here  is  little  Paudeen  without  says 
the  mistress  is  in  a  great  hurry  to  see  you,  and  won't 
have  you  wait  for  his  reverence's  Mass." 

"Is,  then,  my  grandmother  ill?"  said  May,  rising 
hurriedly  from  her  knees. 

"Not  as  I  know  on,  Miss  May;  but  Paudeen  says 
she  is  very  wake  and  low  like,  and  his  reverence  would 
have  stayed  with  her  till  you  came,  only  old  Norrishea 
is  dying,  and  he  was  forced  to  go  off  to  the  other  side 
of  the  island  to  see  her,  and  so  he  bid  you  come  as 
quick  as  you  could." 

Daniel  looked  as  if  there  was  more  the  matter  than 
he  chose  to  tell  of,  and  May  turned  anxiously  to  her 
sister — 

"My  grandmother  wants  me,  darling;  will  you  be 
afraid  of  staying  here  alone?  I  will  come  or  send 
for  you  directly  after  Mass." 

"Oh,  never  mind  me;  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid,  dear 
Grace,"  said  Agnese,  earnestly. 

"Agnese,"  whispered  her  sister,  in  a  low  voice,  "I 


BLIND  AGNESE  109 

feel  as  if  our  grandmother  were  to  die  to-day — pray 
for  her  to  Jesus,  dear  one." 

Agnese  kissed  her  sister's  hand  in  token  of  assent, 
and  May,  taking  the  torch  from  Daniel,  threaded  her 
way  rapidly  among  the  pools  of  water,  and  soon  dis- 
appeared at  the  entrance  of  the  cave.  She  had  not 
been  long  gone,  when  the  poor  people  began  to  ar- 
rive from  the  mainland,  dropping  in  by  twos  and 
threes,  and  crowding  towards  the  altar,  before  which 
they  prayed  so  fervently  and  so  loudly,  that  the  air 
seemed  filled  with  the  murmur  of  their  voices.  A 
whisper  of — "hush,  his  riverence" — soon  afterwards 
announced  the  coming  of  the  priest,  and,  amid  many 
a  blessing  given  and  received,  Father  Netterville  ad- 
vanced to  the  foot  of  the  altar,  where,  after  a  few 
minutes  spent  in  deep  recollection  of  spirit,  he  began 
to  vest  himself  for  the  celebration  of  the  Divine  Sac- 
rifice; and  now  the  low,  fervent  tones  of  his  voice 
reached  Agnese's  ear,  and  she  drank  them  in  as  the 
sweetest  music,  for  theirs  was  the  genuine  language 
of  the  church,  and  the  announcement  to  her  of  the 
true  coming  of  Jesus.  The  bells  rang  out  the  "Gloria 
in  Excelsis,"  and  her  heart  re-echoed  the  song  of  the 
angels,  which  it  is  intended  to  recall;  the  Gospel  was 
said,  and,  to  her  vivid  faith,  it  was  as  if  she  stood  up* 
to  hear  that  voice  which  once  spoke  its  wisdom 
throughout  Israel.  The  "Holy,  holy,  holy"  of  the 
preface,  found  her  walking  in  spirit  beside  Him  on 
His  entrance  into  Jerusalem — and  "holy,  holy,  holy," 
she  once  more  said  in  spirit,  with  the  bright  bands  of 
the  cherubim  and  seraphim,  who  well  she  knew  were 
crowded  into  every  nook  of  that  dark  cave,  in  the 


i  io  BLIND  AGNESE 

solemn  hour  of  the  consecration,  when  the  word  was 
spoken,  though  not  aloud,  which  drew  Him  once  more 
from  the  bosom  of  His  Heavenly  Father,  to  receive  the 
adoration  of  His  earthly  creatures.  Upon  that  rude 
rock  He  was — amid  the  wild  waves,  and  the  moaning 
winds,  and  the  prostrate  people — and  not  in  spirit 
only,  but  in  the  very  form  which  He  took  from  Mary. 
Joy  was  in  Agnese's  heart,  for  now  she  knew  she 
was  kneeling  in  very  deed  at  His  feet;  and  so  she 
said  the  "Our  Father,"  as  she  might  have  said  it  had 
she  been  present  when  He  taught  it  to  His  disciples, 
waiting  still  to  hear,  and  repeating  all  the  words,  as 
if  from  His  very  lips  she  took  them.  At  the  "Agnus 
Dei,"  she  kissed  in  spirit  His  sacred  hands,  imploring 
the  gifts  of  His  mercy  from  them.  At  the  "Dominus 
non  sum  Dignus,"  she  craved  a  yet  closer  union  with 
Him,  saying  over  and  over  again,  with  clasped  hands 
and  streaming  eyes — "Oh,  that  the  dove  would  de- 
scend and  give  Him  to  my  prayer."  And,  if  not 
sacramentally,  spiritually  at  least,  He  did  descend  into 
that  loving  little  heart,  blessing  it  so  entirely  by  His 
presence  that  she  became  as  one  insensible  to  external 
objects,  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  others,  and 
deaf  even  to  the  strange  muttering  sounds  that  now 
filled  the  cavern,  giving  fearful  evidence  of  the  coming 
storm.  Long,  indeed,  before  the  conclusion  of  the  Di- 
vine Sacrifice,  the  people  had  begun  to  look  upon 
each  other  with  pale  faces  and  anxious  eyes — here 
and  there  those  who  had  wives  and  children  gathered 
them  together,  and  then  hurriedly  departed — and,  just 
after  the  consecration,  Daniel,  approaching  Father 
Netterville,  whispered  a  few  words  in  his  ear. 


BLIND  AGNESE  in 

"Tell  the  people  to  depart  directly,  if  there  is  time," 
was  the  hurried  answer. 

"There  is  plenty  of  time,  if  they  go  at  once,  for  the 
tide  won't  be  at  its  full  for  another  hour.  But  won't 
your  riverence  lave  it  with  them  ?"  asked  Daniel,  anx- 
iously; "it  wouldn't  be  safe  to  remain  much  longer." 

"Then  see  that  the  people  do  not  linger,"  replied 
the  Father.  "I  must  finish  what  I  have  begun" — and, 
satisfied  of  the  safety  of  his  flock,  he  resumed  the  in- 
terrupted service  with  as  calm  composure  as  if  his 
life  were  not  perilled  by  the  delay.  Daniel  lost  not  a 
moment  in  communicating  this  mandate  to  the  congre- 
gation, and  a  simultaneous  rush  instantly  took  place 
to  the  entrance,  but  the  faithful  fellow  lingered  yet 
a  few  minutes  longer,  looking  wistfully  towards  the 
Father,  until,  at  a  sigh  from  this  last,  he  also  reluctantly 
withdrew,  and  now  there  only  remained  the  priest  at 
the  altar  and  the  blind  child,  and — but  we  must  not 
anticipate.  A  few  minutes  more  brought  the  service 
to  a  conclusion,  and  then  Father  Netterville  likewise 
left  the  cave,  in  total  ignorance  of  the  presence  of 
another  human  being  within  it,  for,  as  I  have  said 
already,  Grace  had  placed  her  sister  in  a  nook  behind 
the  rock,  where  she  was  completely  hidden  from  ob- 
servation. The  ceasing  of  his  voice  roused  her  at 
last  from  her  dream  of  prayer,  and  then  she  began  to 
wonder  why  it  was  she  heard  no  longer  any  stir  among 
the  people.  At  first  she  attributed  this  to  the  thousand 
voices  of  the  storm,  which  every  moment  raged  louder 
and  louder,  but  at  last  she  became  conscious  of  her 
solitude,  and,  chilled  with  cold  and  a  thousand  vague 
apprehensions,  listened  anxiously  for  the  footsteps  of 


112  BLIND  AGNESE 

her  sister,  seeking  in  vain  to  conjecture  the  cause  of 
her  absence.  Poor  child,  she  was  little  aware  of  the 
real  nature  of  her  situation — that  May,  at  the  bedside 
of  her  dying  grandmother,  was  wholly  unconscious  of 
the  danger  to  which  she  was  exposed — that,  when  the 
north  wind  and  the  spring-tide  came  together,  the 
cave  was  often  many  fathoms  under  water,  and  that 
Father  Netterville  had  himself  departed  in  the  very 
last  moment  when  an  escape  by  a  boat  was  possible. 
Minute  after  minute  of  the  hour  noted  by  Daniel 
passed  away,  and  every  minute  brought  the  danger 
nearer  to  its  unconscious  victim.  Rapidly  the  advanc- 
ing tide  poured  itself  into  the  dark,  deep  pools,  filling 
every  empty  nook  and  cranny  with  its  water,  then  it 
dashed  madly  against  the  rocks,  which  at  first  bravely 
repelled  the  foe,  sending  it  upwards  to  the  caverned 
roof  in  showers  of  spray;  but  wave  followed  wave 
with  irresistible  perseverance,  and  at  last  they  also 
were  surrounded  and  submerged,  their  sharp,  black 
points  appearing  yet  a  moment  longer  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  foam,  and  then  swept  entirely  out  of 
sight  beneath  one  triumphant  billow.  This  obstacle 
overcome,  the  waters  flowed  in  more  calmly,  and,  al- 
though deafened  by  the  storm,  and  drenched  by  the 
spray,  Agnese  was  not  entirely  aware  of  her  danger 
until  the  tide  swept  her  very  feet,  like  a  greedy  mons- 
ter crouching  for  its  prey.  Then  all  at  once  the  truth 
flashed  upon  her  mind,  and,  springing  to  her  feet,  she 
endeavoured  to  clamber  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  rock, 
close  to  which  she  had  been  kneeling.  In  a  calmer 
moment,  even  with  the  full  possession  of  her  eye- 
sight, she  could  not  have  succeeded  in  such  an  under- 


BLIND  AGNESE  113 

taking,  but  now,  under  the  influence  of  that  instinct 
for  self-preservation  which  often  suggests,  and  en- 
ables us  to  accomplish  things  we  should  have  other- 
wise deemed  impossible,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
how  or  in  what  manner  she  never  afterwards  could 
explain,  Agnese  found  herself  panting  and  trembling 
on  the  altar  above.  A  loud  groan  soon  announced  to 
her  that  she  was  not  its  only  tenant,  and  she  might 
have  fancied  Father  Netterville  to  have  been  the  com- 
panion of  her  danger,  had  not  the  succession  of  groans 
and  cries  which  followed  been  mingled  with  impreca- 
tions and  blasphemies  which  she  felt  never  could  have 
been  issued  from  the  lips  of  a  priest;  and,  after  lis- 
tening for  a  few  minutes,  unable,  even  in  that  hour  of 
terror,  to  restrain  her  holy  indignation,  she  cried  out 
in  Italian — 

"O  man!  cease  to  blaspheme  your  Saviour — cease 
to  crucify  your  God  anew." 

An  icy  cold  hand  was  laid  on  hers. 

"Say,  child,  is  there  no  hope  ?  Must  we  indeed  per- 
ish thus?" 

"I  trust  not,"  said  Agnese,  speaking  with  some  dif- 
ficulty in  English,  which  the  shock  had  almost  ban- 
ished from  her  memory.  "God  is  good.  He  yet  may 
save  us." 

"Fool!  there  is  no  hope,"  roared  the  voice.  "Do  I 
not  know  this  cavern  well?  In  a  few  minutes  more 
the  waves  will  have  reached  this  rock,  and  even  if 
they  do  not  rise  much  higher,  their  strength  alone 
will  sweep  us  from  its  surface." 

"And  if  indeed  it  be  so,"  said  Agnese,  with  a  calm- 
ness which,  in  such  an  hour,  and  from  so  young  a 


H4  BLIND  AGNESE 

creature,  was,  in  truth,  sublime,  "know  you  not,  man, 
that  each  of  us  must  die  in  the  very  hour  when  God 
doth  call  us?  Oh,  creature  of  Christ  Jesus  crucified," 
she  added,  suddenly  changing  her  tone,  and  grasping 
the  terrified  wretch  by  both  his  hands,  "why  should 
you  fear  to  die  ?  Has  He  not  also  died  for  you  ?" 

"You  talk  bravely,"  said  the  other  in  a  scoffing  tone. 
"Have  you,  then,  no  fear  of  death,  that  you  pretend 
not  to  shudder  at  its  approach  ?" 

"What  for  should  I  fear  death?"  the  child  replied, 
in  her  sweet,  broken  English.  "I  have  often  asked  to 
go  to  Him,  and  if  He  say,  'Come  to  me  over  the  stormy 
waters,'  why  indeed  should  I  be  afraid  of  going?" 

For  a  moment  the  man  fixed  his  eyes  in  wonder 
upon  this  frail  child,  so  fearful  by  nature  and  yet  so 
fearless  now.  There  she  knelt,  calmly,  as  if  before 
some  sainted  shrine,  her  hands  crossed,  her  head 
bowed,  her  lips  moving,  not  in  impatient  murmuring, 
but  in  prayer.  A  huge  wave  almost  dashing  him  from 
his  rock  of  refuge,  soon  recalled  him  to  remembrance 
of  his  own  fearful  situation,  and,  uttering  a  terrible 
imprecation,  he  cast  his  eyes  upwards,  not,  alas!  in 
supplication,  but  despair.  Through  the  wide  rent 
chasm  in  the  roof,  he  could  see  the  bright,  blue  skies 
above,  looking  down  upon  him,  calm  and  holy,  as  if  to 
rebuke  his  desperation,  but  the  next  moment  a  dark 
shadow  passed  him  and  them.  At  first  he  thought  he 
had  lost  his  eyesight,  then  a  vague  hope  began  to 
creep  into  his  soul.  He  strained  his  eyes  until  the 
balls  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets.  It  was  in- 
deed as  he  had  hardly  dared  to  fancy — a  human  form 
was  visible  above,  and  a  face  of  ashy  paleness  was 


BLIND  AGNESE  115 

gazing  through  the  chasm.  "Mother  of  God!"  cried 
the  voice  of  a  woman,  "the  child  is  below." 

It  was  May  Netterville  who  spoke.  She  had  found 
her  grandmother  apparently  sinking  fast,  but  even 
this  deep  anxiety  could  not  banish  her  blind  sister 
from  her  thoughts. 

She  felt  uneasy  at  having  left  her  alone,  and,  fore- 
seeing the  impossibility  of  going  in  search  of  her  her- 
self, sent  little  Paudeen  down  to  the  shore,  with  di- 
rections to  inform  her  the  moment  he  should  see  Dan- 
iel returning  from  the  cave.  As  we  have  already  seen, 
this  event  occurred  much  sooner  than  could  have  been 
expected,  but  Paudeen,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  high 
tide,  and  who  was  well  aware  that,  under  all  ordinary 
circumstances,  it  would  be  at  least  half  an  hour  before 
he  could  make  his  appearance,  thought  it  would  be  no 
great  injury  to  his  employer  if  he  spent  the  interven- 
ing moments  in  bird-nesting  along  the  cliffs.  The 
consequence  was,  that  he  missed  Daniel  altogether, 
and  the  latter  had  been  some  time  on  shore,  when  May 
Netterville,  becoming  feverishly  impatient  at  the  long 
delay,  left  her  grandmother  to  the  care  of  an  attendant, 
and  went  in  search  of  him  herself.  He  was  soon  vis- 
ible coming  from  the  cliffs ;  but  the  instant  she  named 
the  child,  the  alteration  in  his  countenance  filled  her 
with  horror. 

"What  is  it,  man  ?  Speak !  speak !"  she  cried,  strug- 
gling with  her  apprehensions. 

"The  spring-tide — the  spring-tide,"  gasped  the  man ; 
"the  child  is  lost." 

For  a  moment  May  Netterville  felt  as  if  life  were 
ebbing  from  her  veins.  One  hope  remained. 


ii6  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Father  Netterville !"  suggested  Daniel,  "maybe  his 
riverence  brought  her  back  with  him  ?" 

"No,  no,"  cried  May*;  "he  knew  not  she  was  there." 

"Yonder  he  is,  coming  over  the  cliff;  he  must  have 
landed  full  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago;  no  boat  could 
live  in  such  a  surf  as  that,"  and  Daniel  pointed  with 
a  tremulous  finger  to  the  mighty  billows  that  now 
dashed  against  the  beetling  rocks,  marking  the  entire 
line  of  coast  with  their  sheets  of  foam. 

White  as  ashes,  and  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 
May  turned  her  eyes  in  the  direction  of  his  hand,  and 
saw  indeed  there  was  no  hope  among  those  breakers. 
But  she  was  not  one  to  sit  down  in  despair  while  a 
chance  or  possibility  urged  her  to  exertion. 

"A  rope,  Daniel,  a  rope.  Through  the  chasm  in  the 
rock  she  may  yet  be  saved!" 

Daniel  took  the  hint,  and,  in  an  inconceivably  short 
time,  had  joined  her  at  the  "Devil's  bite,"  as  the  open- 
ing into  the  cave  was  named  among  the  people,  bring- 
ing with  him  a  basket  and  a  rope,  .such  as  was  used 
by  the  bird-nesters  on  the  cliffs,  to  lower  them  to  the 
objects  of  their  perilous  pursuit.  He  was  accom- 
panied by  the  men  from  whom  he  had  borrowed  the 
machine,  and  May  recognized  among  their  faces  some 
of  the  most  reckless  and  well-known  smugglers  on  the 
coast,  men  of  lives  so  desperate,  that  at  any  other  time 
she  would  have  shrunk  from  their  contact,  but  at  this 
moment  she  cared  not  who  or  what  they  were,  so  they 
could  give  her  assistance  in  her  need. 

"I  see  her,  I  think,"  she  said  to  Daniel.  "She  must 
be  saved,  Daniel,  she  must  be  saved." 

Daniel  cast  a  despairing  glance,  first  down  into  the 


BLIND  AGNESE  117 

deep  chasm,  then  on  the  old  and  knotted  rope  by 
which  the  basket  was  to  be  suspended. 

"It  is  sartin  death  to  whoever  thries  it,"  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth. 

"She  must  be  saved,"  repeated  May.  "Will  they 
hold  the  rope  firm  and  steady,  Daniel?" 

"The  rope  'ill  hardly  bear  a  man's  weight,  let  alone 
a  child  along  wid  him,"  said  one  of  the  smugglers, 
giving  the  basket  a  contemptuous  kick  with  his  foot. 
"It  is  worn  and  twisted  almost  out  iv  its  strength  al- 
ready." 

"It  will  bear  mine,  then,"  said  May,  fixing  her  brave 
eyes  on  the  man  who  had  spoken. 

"Yours,  a-chorra,"  cried  Daniel.  "No,  rather  nor 
that  I  will  thry  it  myself;  and  Miss  May,  darlin,  I 
know  I  needn't  say  a  word  about  the  little  ones  at 
home,  for  you  war  always  tindher  and  kind,  and  a 
mother  like  to  them  as  had  no  other,  and  so  were  all 
y're  race  afore  you,  for  the  matther  of  that,  barrin 
the  ould  rogue  up  at  the  hall,  my  heavy  curse  upon 
him  for  the  shame  and  sorrow  he  has  brought  on  the 
name."  While  speaking  these  words,  as  rapidly  as 
ever  they  could  come  out  of  his  mouth,  Daniel  busily 
employed  himself  in  arranging  the  rope  and  the  basket 
for  immediate  descent,  but  May  Netterville  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder.  "I  thank  you,  Daniel ;  but  I  put 
no  man's  life  in  peril — mine  will  be  sufficient." 

"You  will  perish  in  the  attempt,  Miss  May;  see 
what  a  depth  it  is  below,  and  iv  the  rope  twist  ever 
so  little,  you  will  be  dashed  to  atoms  against  the 
rocks." 

"Men  do  these  things  every  day  for  birds'  nests," 


ii8  BLIND  AGNESE 

said  May,  speaking  rapidly,  but  rather  to  herself  than 
to  her  companion,  "and  shall  I  not  do  it  for  Agnese  ?" 

"Only  look  down,  Miss  May,"  continued  Daniel 
"Iv  yer  senses  fail — iv  the  rope  break — look  down  a- 
lanna,  look  down!" 

May  Netterville  did  look  down,  and  felt  her  brain 
grow  dizzy  as  she  looked.  The  descent  was  fearful, 
and  the  rocks  beneath,  all  the  more  terrible  for  the 
darkness  in  which  they  were  partially  enveloped,  while 
the  roar  of  the  winds  and  of  the  waves,  coming  up  in 
hollow  and  confused  murmurs  from  out  of  the  depths 
below,  seemed  to  tell  of  the  certain  death  awaiting  her 
among  them. 

"Think  of  the  ould  lady,  think  of  his  riverence — 
what  would  they  say?"  pleaded  Daniel  in  his  most 
imploring  accents. 

Miss  Netterville  made  no  reply — she  was  battling 
with  the  mighty  terror  which  had  seized  upon  her, 
and  which  almost  threatened  to  deprive  her  of  her 
senses ;  but  the  struggle  was  over  in  a  moment ;  down 
to  the  very  bottom  of  her  heart  she  sent  her  fear, 
down  so  deep,  that  she  herself  was  no  longer  con- 
scious of  its  existence. 

"What  would  they  say,  Daniel?  They  would  say  I 
had  done  my  duty." 

"Lower  away,  my  men,  lower  away !"  she  cried,  seat- 
ing herself  in  the  basket,  her  free,  firm  voice  belying 
the  deadly  paleness  of  her  lip  and  brow. 

"Stop,  for  the  love  of  the  great  God  above  ye,  stop," 
cried  Daniel,  laying  fast  hold  of  her  by  the  skirt  of 
her  dress.  "Let  me  go  in  your  room,  Miss  May,  and 
sure  I  will  bring  her  back  to  you,  iv  I  have  to  go 


BLIND  AGNESE  119 

look  for  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  say,  only  let  me  go 
in  your  room,  a-chorra!" 

"Away,  away,"  cried  May  Netterville,  struggling 
violently  to  free  herself  from  his  grasp. 

"I  am  ould,  and  it's  no  great  matther  to  any  one 
whin  I  go!"  sobbed  the  poor  fellow,  falling  on  his 
knees,  and  putting  his  arms  round  her  and  the  basket, 
so  that  she  could  not  move.  "But,  Miss  May,  darlin, 
all  your  young  years  are  bright  before  you;  do  not 
cast  them  from  you,  as  iv  you  war  ungrateful  to  their 
giver." 

"Stand  back,  man,  stand  back,"  cried  May;  "you 
peril  the  life  of  my  sister  in  these  vain  delays." 

The  suddenness  of  the  announcement  threw  Daniel 
off  his  guard ;  he  cast  up  his  eyes  and  arms  to  heaven 
in  the  excess  of  his  astonishment ;  the  smugglers  seized 
the  favourable  moment,  and  Grace  Netterville  was 
half  way  down  the  chasm,  before  he  had  in  any  de- 
gree recovered  the  use  of  his  senses.  Small  time  had 
she  for  thought  or  terror,  while  hanging  thus  fear- 
fully midway  in  the  air.  Sight  and  sound,  the  boiling 
surge,  the  beetling  rocks,  the  howling  storm,  all  passed 
confusedly  through  her  brain,  and  not  until  she  was 
safely  landed  on  the  altar  rock,  not  until  she  had 
clasped  her  blind  sister  with  all  the  wild  energy  of  her 
nature  to  her  bosom  did  she  fully  realize  the  danger  of 
her  situation. 

"I  knew  you  would  come,  I  knew  you  would  come !" 
sobbed  the  child,  twining  her  arms  round  her  sister's 
neck;  and  more  moved,  as  it  sometimes  happens,  by 
the  prospect  of  rescue  than  she  had  been  in  the  pres- 
ence of  danger.  "I  knew  He  would  send  you  to  me." 


120  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Yes,  yes!  dearest  child,  but  we  must  hasten  away 
now,  for  the  tide  is  rising  fast.  Ah!"  cried  May,  re- 
coiling from  another  hand  laid  upon  her  garments, 
"you  here,"  she  added,  when,  her  eyes  becoming  ac- 
customed to  the  dim  light,  she  recognised  the  terror- 
stricken  features  of  Squire  Netterville.  "Unhappy 
man!  pray  well  to  God,  for  death  is  coming  fast  on 
yonder  breakers." 

"Save  me,  save  me!"  gasped  the  wretch,  already 
almost  choking  in  his  agony. 

"I  came  to  save  my  sister,  and  I  will  save  her,  so 
help  me  God,"  said  May,  resolutely,  unbinding  the 
girdle  from  her  waist,  and  fastening  Agnes  to  her  own 
person  with  it. 

"May  Netterville,  May  Netterville!  by  the  blood 
that  flows  in  both  our  veins,  have  pity  on  your  father's 
brother." 

"Agnese  first,"  said  May,  "I  will  send  the  rope 
for  another  turn." 

"There  will  be  no  time — no  time,"  shrieked  the 
squire,  as  a  huge  wave  struck  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"And  what  of  my  life — what  of  the  child?"  said 
May,  almost  fiercely,  in  her  deep  disgust  for  his  sel- 
fish egotism. 

"It  is  not  my  life  I  crave,"  sobbed  the  renegade  at 
her  feet;  "it  is  my  salvation." 

May  hesitated:  she  saw  there  was,  indeed,  but  little 
time  to  lose.  A  few  more  such  breakers  as  the  last 
would  clear  the  rock  of  its  living  occupants;  and  her 
human  nature  struggled  hard  with  the  holy  inspiration 
which  suggested  the  sacrifice  of  her  own  life  and  that 
of  the  child  she  so  dearly  loved,  for  the  sake  of  one 


BLIND  AGNESE  121 

who  had  been,  not  merely  the  destroyer  of  her  own 
earthly  prospects,  but  who  could  scarcely  be  held 
innocent  of  the  lives  of  her  parents. 

"Water  may  drown — fire  will  not  burn  you,"  mur- 
mured the  unhappy  man.  "You  are  innocent — you 
may  go  to  God;  but  I  have  the  sin  of  Judas  on  my 
soul." 

"Save  him,  save  him,  dearest  Grace,"  Agnese  whis- 
pered now. 

May  looked  at  her,  and  for  a  moment  thought  of 
sending  her  up  with  the  squire,  but  she  changed  her 
mind,  fearing  that,  in  his  selfish  terror,  he  might  seek 
to  lighten  the  rope  by  casting  her  from  him. 

"Even  now,"  thought  she,  "he  is  so  mad  with  fear, 
he  sees  not  how  easy  it  would  be  for  him,  a  strong 
man,  to  rob  a  poor  girl  like  me  of  the  rope,  which  is 
our  only  chance  of  safety." 

"Save  him,  save  him,"  Agnese  once  more  pleaded, 
as  she  saw  her  sister's  hesitation. 

But  it  needed  not  the  urging.  The  large,  noble 
portion  of  her  nature  had  conquered  the  little,  inferior 
part.  May  put  the  rope  in  Squire  Netterville's  hand, 
and  saying — 

"Place  yourself  in  the  basket,  and  hold  fast  the 
rope — it  is  your  only  chance." 

"I  cannot,"  said  the  squire;  "my  arm  is  useless. 
I  put  out  the  shoulder  in  climbing  this  accursed 
rock." 

"This,  then,  is  the  secret  of  your  submissiveness," 
thought  May.  But  she  said  nothing,  merely  passing 
the  rope  round  the  waist  of  her  enemy,  and  securing 
him  as  well  as  she  could  to  the  basket. 


122  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Save  yourself  also,  dearest  Grace,"  cried  Agnese. 
"Indeed,  I  am  not  afraid  to  stay  alone." 

"No,  dear  child ;  we  will  live  and  die  together,"  said 
May,  folding  her  arms  round  her  sister,  and  giving 
the  preconcerted  signal  for  the  hoisting  of  the  rope. 

Up  went  the  basket  directly,  and  a  shout  of  execra- 
tion hailed  the  appearance  of  the  squire  overhead :  but 
May  Netterville  heard  it  not.  With  her  blind  sister 
bound  tightly  to  her  bosom,  one  hand  yet  clasping 
her  for  greater  security,  while  the  other  grasped 
the  stone  cross  of  the  altar,  all  her  energies  of  soul 
and  body  were  concentrated  in  the  effort  to  preserve 
herself  and  her  precious  charge  from  being  swept 
away  by  the  breakers.  Quicker  and  stronger  every 
minute  they  came  dashing  over  her ;  one  had  scarcely 
retired,  before  another,  yet  more  terrible,  leaped 
into  its  place,  threatening  to  bury  her  beneath  its 
waters,  and  scarcely  able  to  breathe,  half  drowned, 
half  blind  beneath  the  merciless  showers  of  spray, 
her  bodily  power  was  rapidly  failing,  and  even 
her  high  courage  almost  exhausted,  when  some- 
thing dark  passed  through  the  air,  and  the  rope  and 
the  basket  lay  at  her  feet.  Too  late,  too  late — all 
her  strength  was  gone;  sight  and  sense  had  nearly 
failed  her :  the  hand  that  grasped  the  cross  fell  power- 
less at  her  side ;  and  the  next  wave  would  have  borne 
her  far  from  her  rock  of  refuge,  had  not  a  strong 
arm  been  thrown  around  her,  and  a  strong  hand  bound 
her  and  her  half  dead  sister  to  the  basket;  and  when 
next  May  Netterville  opened  her  eyes,  she  found 
herself  lying  on  the  rocks,  from  whence  she  had  de- 
scended only  half  an  hour  before.  With  the  excep- 


BLIND  AGNESE  123 

tion  of  one  old  woman,  busily  occupied  in  the  care  of 
Agnese,  there  seemed  no  one  near  her.  May  felt  as 
if  she  had  been  in  a  terrible  dream. 

"Daniel,  Daniel,"  she  cried,  sitting  up,  and  trying  to 
recall  her  scattered  senses.  "Surely,  Daniel  was  with 
us  among  the  waters." 

"To  be  sure  he  was — to  be  sure  he  was,"  cried  Dan- 
iel, darting  from  behind  the  rocks  which  had  kept 
him  out  of  sight,  and  crying  and  laughing  both  at  the 
same  time,  in  the  excess  of  his  delight,  at  once  more 
hearing  her  speak.  "And  did  you  think,  a-lanna,  that 
poor  Daniel  was  goin'  to  let  you  be  dhrownded,  for 
the  sake  of  the  precious  ould  rogue  you  sent  us  up 
in  the  basket?" 

"Hush!  hush!"  said  Grace,  something  like  a  smile 
playing  round  her  own  pale  lips,  while  she  took  her 
still  insensible  sister  from  the  arms  of  old  Moya. 
"But  I  thank  God  you  are  safe,  Daniel.  I  never  should 
have  felt  happy  again,  if  you  had  lost  your  life  in 
my  service." 

"Now,  may  heaven's  blessin'  be  upon  you  for  that 
very  word,  Miss  May,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  grate- 
fully. "And  niver  think,  a-chorra,  that  I  risked  your 
precious  life  by  puttin'  my  clumsy  self  in  the  basket 
along  wid  ye.  No,  no;  I  knew  betther  nor  that,  I 
hope.  Manners,  says  I  to  myself;  Misther  Daniel, 
ladies  first,  iv  you  plaise.  So  wid  that  I  made  the 
rope  tight  round  your  own  purty  little  waist;  and 
stuck  like  an  oyster  to  the  rock  whiles  they  were  hoist' 
ing  yes  up." 

"I  am,  indeed,  most  grateful  for  your  generous  de- 
votion," murmured  Grace,  still  speaking  and  feeling 


124  BLIND  AGNESE 

like  one  in  a  dream,  so  completely  had  her  strength 
been  exhausted  in  the  struggle. 

"May  I  never  sin,  Miss  May,  if  I  didn't  think  the 
good  people  had  been  at  some  of  their  thricks,  when, 
instead  of  the  sweet  little  dove  that  went  down  in  the 
basket,  I  seed  the  ugly  ould  squire,  lookin'  for  all  the 
world  like  a  carcumvinted  magpie,  half  dhrownded  in 
its  nest." 

"The  squire;  the  squire!"  cried  May,  springing  to 
her  feet,  as  all  the  particulars  of  her  adventure  now 
flashed  on  her  memory. 

"Ah!  now  you  look  like  yourself  agin,  Miss  May; 
so  I  may  vinture  to  tell  you,  I'm  afeard  there  'ill  be 
wild  work  among  the  smugglers  this  mornin'.  It 
seems  Squire  Netterville  has  been  a  huntin'  some  of 
thim  for  croppies  these  six  months,  so  they  swore  they 
would  spoil  his  sport  for  the  future.  And  troth," 
continued  Daniel,  not  looking,  it  must  be  confessed, 
much  distressed  at  the  prospect,  "it's  like  enough 
they'll  be  as  good  as  their  word,  for  Shane  iv  the 
Lift  Hand  is  among  thim,  and  he  fears  neither 
man  or  devil,  when  he  has  a  mind  for  a  bit  of 
revinge." 

"Good  God,  Daniel !  and  whither  have  they  brought 
him?" 

"Down  yonder  to  the  dead  man's  cave,  Miss  May; 
and  a  bad  place  it  is;  and  many  a  bad  deed  it  has 
seen;  and  not  the  last  either,  I'm  thinkin',  for  Shane 
is  a  terrible  man  for  a  bit  iv  revinge ;  and  he  says  the 
squire  swore  three  of  his  sons  to  the  gallows,  for 

rebels;  and .  But  where  are  you  startin'  off  to 

in  such  a  hurry,  Miss  May?" 


BLIND  AGNESE  125 

"To  prevent  murder,  to  be  sure,"  cried  May.  "Run, 
Daniel,  to  my  uncle,  and  bring  him  hither  directly. 
Moya,  stay  with  the  child,  or  rather  take  her  to  my 
grandmother's.  And  you,  Daniel,  run  for  your  very 
life." 

And  having  rapidly  given  these  directions,  May  Net- 
terville  darted  off,  like  lightning,  in  the  direction  of 
the  dead  man's  cave.  She  was  not  a  minute  too  soon. 
By  the  light  of  a  torch,  which  one  of  the  smugglers 
held  in  his  hand,  she  beheld  her  unhappy  uncle,  bound, 
hand  and  foot,  to  a  projecting  portion  of  the  rock, 
and  gagged  so  tightly,  to  prevent  him  from  screaming, 
that  his  face  was  completely  distorted,  and  his  eyes 
almost  starting  from  his  head  by  the  pressure.  The 
smugglers  were  crowding  fiercely  round  him,  with 
many  a  muttered  threat  and  half-suppressed  execra- 
tion; and  a  vessel  full  of  tar,  and  a  great  heap 
of  feathers,  too  plainly  proclaimed  the  terrible 
fate  in  preparation  for  him.  As  she  entered  the 
cave,  the  quick  eye  of  May  Netterville  took  in 
all  this  at  a  glance,  and  without  bestowing  a 
thought  on  her  own  safety,  or  the  risk  she  was 
running,  she  passed  right  through  the  crowd,  and 
interposed  her  slight  form  between  them  and  their 
victim. 

"What  are  you  about,  my  men?"  she  cried.  "Would 
you  commit  murder?" 

"We  would  give  to  the  duoul  his  own,"  said  Left- 
handed  Shane,  eyeing  the  squire  with  savage  malig- 
nity. 

"Then  you  should  give  your  own  necks  to  the  hang-* 
man,"  retorted  Grace,  fearlessly.  "Think  you  not  the 


126  BLIND  AGNESE 

whole  country  would  rise  to  avenge  such  an  outrage 
as  this?" 

"The  whole  country  would  belie  its  own  thoughts 
and  feelings,  then,"  muttered  Shane.  "From  the 
young  girl  who,  they  say,  is  still  to  the  fore,  to  step 
into  his  shoes,  down  to  the  poorest  craytur  on  the  es- 
tate, not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  that  wouldn't  dance 
with  joy  over  the  renegade's  grave." 

"Now,  at  least,  you  lie,  man,"  said  May,  drawing 
her  slight  form  to  its  utmost  height,  and  looking 
proudly  on  the  wondering  men.  "For  I  am  the  young 
girl  of  whose  will  you  prate  so  freely ;  and  I  swear  to 
you,  if  you  do  this  deed,  I  will  pursue  you  to  the  gal- 
lows. Yes !  though  the  broad  lands  of  Netterville  were 
to  be  sold  for  the  money." 

"You  talk  big,  Miss  Netterville,"  said  Shane,  a 
shade  of  respect  unconsciously  mingling  with  his  for- 
mer manner;  "but  you  forget  that  you,  also,  are  in 
our  power." 

"I  do  not  forget  it,"  said  May;  "you  shall  kill  me 
before  you  touch  one  hair  of  his  head ;  and  see  if  the 
country  will  be  as  lenient  upon  you  for  the  murder 
of  the  niece  as  for  that  of  the  uncle.  Now,  man, 
come  on !  You  may  tar  and  feather  us  both  together  if 
you  will." 

And  in  her  lofty  self-forgetfulness,  May  actually 
flung  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  the  man,  from 
whose  touch  she  would,  at  any  other  time,  have  re- 
coiled with  as  much  loathing  as  she  would  have  done 
from  that  of  a  serpent. 

"Miss  Netterville,"  said  Shane,  impatiently,  "I 
mane  you  no  harm,  but  I  have  sworn  to  have  the  life  of 


BLIND  AGNESE  127 

this  man;  and  by  the  dark  duoul  I  will  have  it:  so 
stand  back,  iv  you  value  yer  own." 

Miss  Netterville,  however,  stirred  not  an  inch. 

"Work  your  will,  if  you  list,"  she  contented  her- 
self with  saying,  "but  it  must  be  upon  us  both." 

The  smuggler's  brow  grew  dark,  and  he  seized  her 
with  no  gentle  hand. 

"Loose  him,"  he  cried;  "loose  him!  or  by  all  the 
powers  above  and  below,  I'll  do  ye  a  mischief." 

But  still  May  clung  closely  to  her  uncle,  uttering 
scream  after  scream,  in  hopes  of  bringing  some  one  to 
her  aid. 

"Hould  yer  tongue,  will  you,  or  shall  I  make  you  ?" 
said  the  savage,  fumbling  in  his  pocket  as  if  for  a 
knife;  happily  one  of  the  others  now  interfered,  by 
catching  hold  of  his  arm,  and'  saying — 

"No,  no,  Shane!  For  the  ould  one  it's  all  fair 
enough.  He's  a  spy  and  a  thrayter,  and  desarvin'  his 
doom.  But  you  shan't  touch  the  young  one,  with  my 
good  will." 

"Nor  with  mine,  nor  mine,"  echoed  several  voices 
among  the  men,  many  of  whom  knew  May  by  sight, 
although  not  by  name,  and  loved  her  for  her  good 
and  gentle  deeds  among  the  poor. 

"Shan't  I,  though?"  cried  Shane,  dropping  May's 
arm,  and  turning  round  upon  his  new  opponents. 
"Dhar-a-loursa,  and  who  is  to  prevent  me,  I  wonder  ?" 

"He  who  would  avenge  her,"  said  a  voice  at  his  el- 
bow. The  smuggler  turned,  with  something  like  fear 
depicted  on  his  bold  countenance,  and  met  the  eyes 
of  Father  Netterville  gazing  sadly  upon  him.  "My 
children,"  continued  the  good  man,  looking  slowly 


128  BLIND  AGNESE 

round,  and  recognizing  many  of  his  own  flock  in  the 
fierce-looking  group  before  him — "what  are  you  about, 
my  children?  Is  it  to  see  you  commit  deeds  like  this 
one  that  I  have  laboured  among  you  for  so  many 
years  ?" 

"Sure,  y're  riverence,  he  dhrew  it  on  himself,"  said 
one  of  the  men  in  an  exculpatory  tone,  while  others 
hung  back,  apparently  fearful  and  ashamed  at  the  re- 
buke of  their  priest.  "What  is  he  on  the  island  for,  at 
all,  at  all,  the  black  villain,  iv  it  isn't  as  a  spy  and  a 
thrayter?" 

"Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord,  and  I  will  repay 
it,"  shouted  Father  Netterville,  "and  who  are  you,  my 
children,"  he  continued  more  mildly,  "that  you  should 
usurp  the  privileges  he  has  reserved  for  himself?  or 
is  His  arm  shortened,  or  His  eye  no  longer  upon  you, 
that  you  dare  to  take  His  deed  upon  yourselves?" 

"  'Tis  a  silf-defince,  and  not  a  vingeance,"  said 
Shane,  speaking  for  the  first  time  since  the  priest  had 
entered  the  cavern.  "For,  by  the  gonnies,  if  we  let 
him  off  now,  he'll  have  a  hempen  cravat  for  some  of 
our  necks  afore  another  blessed  month  is  over  our 
heads." 

"It  is  written,"  said  the  Father,  sternly,  "Thou  shalt 
do  no  murder.  Loose  him,  May,"  he  continued,  un- 
twining his  niece's  arms  gently  from  around  the  pale 
victim's  form — "if  he  were  ten  times  a  spy,  he  shall 
go  forth  in  safety  from  this  cave;"  and  picking  up 
Shane's  own  knife,  which  he  had  dropt  upon  the  floor, 
Father  Netterville  deliberately  cut  his  intended  vic- 
tim's bonds,  and  loosed  the  gag  which  had  all  but 
choked  him. 


BLIND  AGNESE  729 

As  he  did  so,  the  features  of  the  squire  assumed 
their  natural  appearance ;  his  senses,  almost  banished 
by  pain  and  fear,  gradually  returned;  and  he  looked 
long  and  steadily  on  the  face  of  his  deliverer.  Father 
Netterville  returned  his  troubled  gaze,  and  for  the 
first  time  for  many  years  brother  looked  on  brother, 
until,  like  a  second  Joseph,  the  memory  of  the  Chris- 
tian priest  seemed  to  leap  over  years  of  injury  and 
ill  deeds ;  his  heart  yearned  towards  the  companion  of 
his  childhood,  and,  falling  on  his  neck,  he  wept  over 
him  with  a  loud  voice. 

"Brother,  forgive  me,"  murmured  the  squire,  in  an 
inarticulate  voice. 

"My  son,  my  brother,  you  are  forgiven,"  said  the 
Father;  and  then  he  lifted  up  his  face,  still  wet  with 
his  tears,  towards  the  crowd  that  now  pressed  around 
him,  all  their  fiercer  passions  lulled  into  sympathy  for 
one  whose  saintly  deeds  had  won  their  love,  full  as 
'much  as  his  saintly  character  had  commanded  their 
respect. 

"My  children,  you  must  let  this  man  go  free.  I 
will  answer  for  him,  that  he  will  intrude  upon  you 
no  more." 

"We  will,  your  riverence — for  your  riverence's  sake, 
he  is  free." 

"Not  for  mine,"  said  the  priest,  reverentially  uncov- 
ering his  head,  "but  let  it  be  for  His  who  died  for  him, 
and  for  us  all." 

Involuntarily,  the  men  lifted  their  hats.  Bold  and 
lawless  as  they  were,  and  wrought,  by  ill  usage,  to 
many  an  evil  deed,  they  were  not  merely  susceptible 
of  generous  impulse  in  themselves,  but  deeply  cap- 


130  BLIND  AGNESE 

able  of  appreciating  it  in  others.  And  in  their  rever- 
ence for  Father  Netterville,  as  a  minister  of  God,  and 
yet  more  in  their  admiration  of  his  meek  forgiveness 
of  the  life-long  injuries  inflicted  on  him  by  his  brother, 
there  was  not  one  among  them,  with  the  exception  of 
Left-handed  Shane  himself,  who  would  not  now  have 
risked  his  life  in  defence  of  the  very  man  whom,  five 
minutes  before,  they  were  intent  upon  torturing  to 
the  most  hideous  of  deaths. 

Father  Netterville  read  their  altered  feelings  at  a 
glance ;  but  there  was  something  in  Shane's  eye  which 
convinced  him,  he  was  not  to  be  so  easily  persuaded 
or  convinced. 

"In  the  name  of  Him  who  pardoned  His  enemies 
with  His  dying  breath,  I  thank  you,  oh,  my  children. 
But  you  have  a  right  to  demand  every  security  in  my 
power  to  offer,  and  therefore  he  shall  swear." 

"Swear!"  echoed  Shane,  with  a  most  disdainful 
movement  of  the  upper  lip — "his  oath ! — the  man  who 
swore  away  his  brother's  life  and  lands — poh!  poh!" 

Father  Netterville  sighed — it  was  indeed  vain  to 
put  trust  in  the  renegade's  oath.  He  thought  of  an- 
other and  a  better  security. 

"How  did  you  bring  him  hither?" 

"We  brought  him  blindfolded,"  said  Shane,  fiercely. 
"We  wouldn't  trust  the  renegade,  even  in  his  grave." 

"Then  bind  his  eyes  again,"  said  Father  Netter- 
ville, "and  I  swear  to  you  he  shall  not  look  upon  the 
light  again,  until  he  open  them  in  his  mother's  cham- 
ber. To  the  bedside  of  a  dying  parent  you  will  surely 
believe  that  he  would  not,  willingly,  bring  strife  and 
bloodshed." 


BLIND  AGNESE  131 

May  undid  the  kerchief  from  his  neck,  but  Shane 
snatched  it  rudely  from  her,  and  bound  it  so  tightly 
round  the  eyes  of  Squire  Netterville  that  he  uttered  an 
involuntary  expression  of  pain.  "Curse  ye,"  Shane 
fiercely  muttered  below  his  breath,  "it's  better  than 
the  cravat  you  twisted  round  the  necks  of  my  brave 
boys."  Father  Netterville  overheard  the  words,  and, 
unwilling  to  try  the  temper  of  such  a  man  much  longer, 
he  took  the  arm  of  his  brother,  and  led  him  from 
among  them.  "Whither  do  you  bring  me?"  said  the 
squire  hoarsely. 

"To  the  bedside  of  our  mother.  I  would  have  her 
to  bless  you,  my  brother,  before  she  departs." 

Squire  Netterville  shuddered,  and  suffered  his 
brother  to  lead  him  forward  in  silence.  The  dead 
man's  cave  communicated,  by  an  underground  passage, 
with  the  one  in  which  Father  Netterville  had  found  a 
temporary  home  for  himself  and  his  mother;  and 
through  this  he  now  led  the  squire,  but  he  paused  at 
the  further  end  of  the  gallery,  and  said  to  May — 
"Stay  you  here,  my  child,  and  watch  him,  while  I  go 
in  and  prepare  my  mother." 

The  squire  seemed  struggling  with  some  terrible  ap- 
prehensions. "Do  not  go  in,  brother !  Do  not  go  in," 
he  cried  vehemently. 

"And  wherefore  not  ?  I  will  be  with  you  in  a  mo- 
ment," said  the  priest;  mildly  and  gently  disengaging 
himself  from  his  brother's  detaining  hand,  he  pro- 
ceeded at  once  into  the  recess  of  the  further  cavern — 
a  wild  shout  from  their  depth  instantly  succeeded 
his  disappearance.  May  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
horror,  and  darted  after  him  like  an  arrow,  and  tear- 


132  BLIND  AGNESE 

ing  the  bandage  off  his  eyes,  the  squire  followed  in  her 
footsteps  just  in  time  to  behold  his  brother  seized  and 
handcuffed  by  a  party  of  soldiery,  under  the  command 
of  one  whose  name  is  yet  held  in  execration  by  the 
Irish  peasantry,  as  that  of  a  man  altogether  reckless 
of  human  life,  and,  under  the  specious  pretext  of  mar- 
tial law,  steeped  to  the  eyes  in  the  blood  of  the  guilt- 
less as  well  as  the  guilty. 

"You  have  done  this,"  cried  May,  turning  round 
upon  Squire  Netterville,  with  a  flashing  eye  and  quiv- 
ering lip. 

"Brother !"  faltered  the  unhappy  man ;  "as  God  sees 
me,  I  knew  not  that  you  were  my  brother.  It  was 
only  by  a  conversation  I  overheard  this  morning  in 
the  cave,  that  I  learned  I  had  a  mother  and  a  brother 
yet  existing.  I  thought  you  had  perished  long  ago." 

"My  son — my  brother — I  do  believe  you,"  said 
Father  Netterville,  mildly. 

But    May   looked   fiercely   incredulous — 

"Save  him,  then,"  she  said,  "if  you  would  have  us 
believe  you  innocent  of  his  blood;  you  have  brought 
these  men  hither;  you  can  send  them  away  again,  I 
suppose,  if  you  will." 

"Your  pardon,  madame,"  said  the  officer,  coldly. 
"Mr.  Netterville  certainly  gave  information  of  a 
croppy  priest  lurking  in  these  caves,  who,  some 
months  ago,  had  been  openly  seen  with  a  party  of 
armed  rebels — but  there  his  duty  ceased.  I  alone  am 
in  authority  here." 

Father  Netterville  might  easily  have  brought  wit- 
nesses to  prove  that  he  had  been  among  the  rebels  only 
to  induce  them  to  disperse  quietly  to  their  homes,  but 


BLIND  AGNESE  133 

he  was  silent,  for  he  knew  the  man  he  had  to  deal 
with,  and  he  felt  that  any  one  speaking  in  his  favour 
was  more  likely  to  be  hanged  as  a  rebel  than  heard  as 
a  witness.  In  his  fear  of  compromising  others  he  even 
congratulated  himself  upon  having,  previously  to  his 
visit  to  the  dead  man's  cave,  sent  his  faithful  Daniel 
on  a  message  to  the  dying  Norisheen,  which  would  in- 
sure his  absence  for  a  least  an  hour  longer,  so  fear- 
fully uncertain  was  life  and  liberty  in  the  days  when 
martial  law  held  sway  over  the  land. 

"My  uncle  is  neither  a  rebel  nor  a  croppy,"  said 
May,  proudly,  in  answer  to  the  officer's  last  insinua- 
tion. 

"We  shall  see  that  presently,  madam,"  said  the 
officer :  "martial  law  is  a  great  enlightener  in  these  in- 
tricate cases.  Mr.  Netterville,  will  you  kindly  lead 
the  young  lady  hence  ?  Justice  is  a  hard-hearted  dame, 
and  loves  not  the  presence  of  the  young  and  lovely  at 
her  counsels;  and,  besides,"  he  added,  with  a  bitter 
sneer,  "I  would  spare  your  feelings  also  the  hard  task 
of  bearing  witness  against  a  brother." 

May  cast  a  troubled  look  upon  the  speaker;  there 
was  something  in  his  face  which  made  her  tremble, 
and,  weeping  bitterly,  she  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of 
Father  Netterville.  He  also  read  his  doom  upon  that 
darkling  brow,  but,  faithful  to  the  principle  which 
had  guided  him  through  life,  he  prepared  to  meet  his 
impending  fate  in  the  same  spirit  of  simple  firmness 
with  which  he  would  have  accomplished  any  other 
duty  arising  from  his  mission  among  a  suspected  and 
much  persecuted  people;  and,  when  he  spoke  again, 
his  voice  was  as  calm  and  soothing  as  though  he  did 


134  BLIND  AGNESE 

not  know  that  the  hand  of  violence  was  about  to  hush 
its  accents  for  ever. 

"Grieve  not,  my  child,  for  I  am  innocent  of  all  re- 
bellion; take  your  uncle  to  my  mother,  but  say  noth- 
ing to  her  of  all  this !  it  would  only  give  her  causeless 
sorrow." 

May  caught  hold  of  his  hands,  and  deluged  them 
with  her  tears. 

"My  uncle,  my  father,"  she  whispered;  "give  me 
your  blessing." 

"May  heaven  bless  you,  my  own — my  only  one,"  he 
answered,  laying  his  hands  in  solemn  benediction  on 
her  head,  and  then,  stooping  down,  he  gently  kissed 
her  brow.  Well  he  knew  it  was  his  final  blessing — 
his  last  farewell  to  the  child  of  his  life-long  love  and 
care.  "And  now,"  he  added,  placing  her  reluctant 
hand  in  that  of  her  less  worthy  relative ;  "lead  him  to 
my  mother.  Brother,  farewell!  you  are  forgiven." 

May  rose  from  her  knees;  she  dreamed  not  of  the 
instant  death  awaiting  the  priest,  but  the  Squire  knew 
it  well,  and  he  saw,  by  the  emphasis  laid  upon  the  word 
"forgiven,"  that  his  brother  knew  it  also. 

In  that  terrible  moment,  shame,  remorse,  and  horror 
were  all  busy  at  his  heart,  so  choking  him  and  paralyz- 
ing all  his  powers,  that  he  could  neither  ask  forgive- 
ness of  his  victim  nor  yet  return  the  embrace  in  which 
it  was  imparted ;  cold,  silent,  and  despairing  he  turned 
from  the  brother,  whom  unconsciously,  but  surely,  he 
had  pursued  to  the  death,  and  followed  the  footsteps 
of  his  niece,  looking,  feeling,  and  moving  all  the  while 
like  one  under  the  influence  of  a  horrible  night-mare. 
May  laid  her  hand  upon  the  curtain  which  separated 


BLIND  AGNESE  135 

her  mother's  chamber  from  the  outer  passage  of  the 
cave,  and  he  would  have  stepped  beneath  it,  had  she 
not  stopped  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  Mechani- 
cally he  paused,  and  looked  upon  her,  but  it  was  with 
eyes  which  had  lost  all  consciousness  of  her  presence. 

"John  Netterville,"  said  May,  with  a  kindling  eye 
and  heightened  colour ;  "you  have  come  hither  to-day 
as  a  spy  on  the  life  and  liberty  of  the  best  and  gentlest 
being  upon  earth — the  nearest  and  dearest  yet  left  for 
me  to  love.  Long  ago,  you  drove  my  father  and  my 
mother  from  their  home  and  their  own  country — one 
to  perish  on  a  field  of  blood,  the  other  to  die  in  sorrow 
and  in  want.  Me  you  have  beaten,  as  you  would  not 
have  beaten  the  very  hound  at  your  feet,  and  for  all 
these  things  I  have  twice  this  day  given  you  back  your 
life;  all  I  ask  of  you  in  return" — she  added,  in  softer 
and  milder  accents  than  she  had  used  in  the  begin- 
ning— "is,  that  the  last  half  of  your  life  may  be  spent 
in  weeping  for  tho  first." 

John  Netterville  listened  to  her  at  first  with  the 
same  lack-lustre  eyes  and  vacant  stare,  but  as  she  pro- 
ceeded, his  consciousness  gradually  returned,  convul- 
sion after  convulsion  shook  his  frame;  he  tried  to 
speak,  but  could  not;  the  wondering  girl  was  about 
to  go  and  fetch  him  some  water,  but  he  caught  her  by 
the  arm,  staggering,  as  he  did  so,  like  a  wounded  man. 
Just  th^n  a  hand  from  within  drew  aside  the  curtain 
and  the  tall,  wasted  form  of  a  woman  appeared  at  the 
opening,  gazing  silently  upon  him. 

"Mother,  forgive  me,"  burst  from  his  lips,  and  he 
fell  on  his  knees. 

The  dying  woman  moved  her  bloodless  lips;  she 


136  BLIND  AGNESE 

was  about  to  speak,  when  a  confused  sound  of  voices 
and  footsteps  was  heard  from  without — theni  there 
was  an  ominous  pause — then  a  frightfully  prolonged 
scream — and  then  old  Moya  rushed  into  the  cavern, 
exclaiming : — 

"Gracious  God !  they  have  murdhered  his  riverence." 

"Oh,  curse  him  not,  curse  him  not,"  cried  May,  ter- 
rified at  the  expression  of  the  mother's  face — "bless 
him,  mother,  before  you  go." 

The  dying  woman  opened  wide  her  arms.  "May 
God  forgive  you  as  I  do — my  son,  God  bless  thee !" 

John  Netterville  caught  her  to  his  bosom — but  the 
mother's  heart  was  broken — she  was  dead  before  she 
had  touched  his  shoulder. 

The  prayer  of  Agnese  had  been  heard  in  heaven — 
the  sacrifice  accepted  in  its  utmost  rigour. 

Father  Netterville — the  good  and  the  kind — was 
dead.  The  shepherd  had  laid  down  his  life  for  his 
flock,  and  the  mother  had  departed  in  sorrow  to  her 
tomb;  but  the  price  was  paid — the  prodigal  was  won 
— and  John  Netterville  wept  over  her  corpse — a  peni- 
tent, indeed! 


CHAPTER  VI 

"'T'HERE  it  is  again,"  said  Agnese,  as  out  of  the 
confusion  of  sound  in  the  streets  below,  the 
Hymn  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  came  faintly  to  her 
ear.  "Look  out  from  the  balcony,  dearest  Grace,  and 
tell  me  if  he  is  coming  this  way." 

The  Little  Spouse  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  was 
laid  upon  a  light  couch,  placed  sufficiently  near  the 
open  window  to  admit  the  visit  of  the  soft  summer 
breeze  on  her  fevered  brow.  A  loose,  white  dressing- 
gown  was  wrapt  around  her,  for  she  had  been  very 
ill,  and  even  now  the  colour  on  her  cheek  was  all  too 
bright  for  health,  and  the  lustre  of  her  eyes  too  daz- 
zling.^ May  Netterville,  who  never  left  her  night  or 
day,  was  seated  at  her  side,  and  Lady  Oranmore, 
sorrow  in  her  heart,  and  tears,  which  she  vainly 
struggled  to  repress,  often  starting  to  her  eyes,  was 
standing  in  the  very  same  balcony  from  whence,  just 
one  year  before  she  had  looked  down  on  the  illumi- 
nated street,  and  the  holy  procession,  and  the  fair  child 
now  visibly  dying  beneath  her  eyes,  passing,  she  could 
not  but  feel,  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  going  gently, 
sweetly,  almost  imperceptibly  to  the  bosom  of  that 
God  whose  path  she  had  so  often  and  so  lovingly 
followed  upon  earth. 

It  seemed  as  if  she  were  indeed  a  child  of  especial 
predilection,  and  as  if  God  had  resolved  upon  grant- 
ing even  the  smallest  of  her  wishes,  before  complying 
with  the  chiefest  of  them  all,  in  calling  her  to  Him- 

137 


138  BLIND  AGNESE 

self.  She  had  prayed  to  revisit  Italy;  and  they  had 
brought  her  to  die  among  its  flowers.  She  had 
mourned  for  the  dear,  familiar  faces  of  her  child- 
hood; and  now,  half  as  a  mother,  half  as  a  nurse, 
the  kind  old  Benita  was  ever  at  her  side,  while  not  a 
day  passed  without  a  visit  from  Francesco ;  and  many 
a  sweet  and  loving  word  from  him  concerning  that 
Sacrament  of  love,  which  formed  the  bond  of  union 
between  the  heart  of  the  old  man  and  the  poor  blind 
child.  What  more  was  wanting  to  the  happiness  of 
Agnese  ?  Yes !  one  thing  more  to  fill  her  cup  to  over- 
flowing— one  thing  more,  without  which  the  contents 
of  that  cup  would  have  lost  their  sweetness  to  her  lips ; 
and  so,  that  one  thing  more  was  granted.  He  who 
gave  to  her  the  creatures  of  her  love  would  not  deny 
Himself,  whom  she  loved  almost  to  the  exclusion  of 
His  creatures;  therefore,  upon  the  feast  of  Corpus 
Christi,  just  one  week  before  the  period  at  which  our 
present  chapter  opens,  He,  Himself,  in  her  first  com- 
munion, had  allowed  her,  by  her  own  experience,  "to 
taste  and  see  that  the  Lord  is  sweet." 

From  that  moment  May  Netterville  fancied  she 
could  perceive  more  of  heaven  and  less  of  earth  about 
her  dying  sister.  Each  day  she  spoke  less  often,  and 
every  time  she  spoke  her  voice  appeared  to  have  a 
greater  sweetness  in  it.  Each  day  she  grew  more 
recollected  in  herself  and  more  absorbed,  or  rather,  I 
should  say,  more  forgetful  of  herself,  and  more  recol- 
lected and  absorbed  in  Him,  who  seemed  to  have 
chosen,  not  merely  this  young  spirit,  but  the  very 
form  in  which  it  was  enshrined,  for  the  especial  tem- 
ple of  His  presence.  And  each  day  something  more 


BLIND  AGNESE  139 

of  reverence  seemed  to  mingle  with  May's  love  for 
the  dying  child;  and  she  would  sit  for  hours  beside 
her,  stilling  the  regrets  of  her  own  loving  heart,  and 
resolutely  putting  back  the  prayer  that,  in  spite  of 
herself,  would  sometimes  rise  to  her  lips  for  the  avert- 
ing of  a  fate  which  yet  she  also  felt  to  be  less  a  death 
than  a  passing  away  from  one  life  to  another — from 
the  life  of  loving  expectation  to  that  of  certain  and 
intense  fruition.  These  thoughts  were  in  her  mind 
just  now,  as,  with  a  half-finished  wreath  of  white 
roses  in  her  hands,  she  sat  waiting  the  arrival  of  Fran- 
cesco, who  had  promised  to  come  and  carry  Agnese 
to  Lady  Oranmore's  carriage.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  been  in  the  open  air  since  she  made  her  first 
communion ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  only  by  reiterated  en- 
treaties she  had  won  the  unwilling  consent  of  her 
grandmother  to  be  present  at  the  evening  benediction 
in  the  Church  of  the  "Blessed  Sacrament." 

The  doctors  had  been  appealed  to,  but  they  only 
shrugged  their  shoulders ;  it  was  evident  they  thought 
her  past  hope  or  care;  and  so  at  last  Lady  Oranmore 
yielded,  partly  because  she  could  deny  nothing 
to  her  darling,  and  partly  because  she  felt  a 
kind  of  necessity  in  her  own  heart  for  revisiting  the 
church  where,  just  one  year  before,  she  had  discovered 
Agnese.  Besides,  she  knew  it  to  be  the  eve  of  the 
Feast  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  when  we  celebrate  Christ's 
love  for  man;  and  possibly  she  might  have  indulged 
the  vague  hope  that  in  this  church  God  would  give 
back  to  her  prayers  the  treasure  which,  in  this  church, 
He  had  vouchsafed  to  her  entreaties;  perhaps  even 
she  felt  that  she  had  need  to  ask  forgiveness  for  her 


I4o  BLIND  AGNESE 

faithless  attempt  to  warp  the  conscience  of  the  guilt- 
less being  whom,  in  mercy  to  her  sorrow,  He  had  then 
confided  to  her  keeping. 

She  could  not  think  of  it  now  without  remorse,  only 
softened  by  the  feeling,  that  from  the  hour  in  which 
she  had  given  May  Netterville  a  promise  to  that  effect, 
she  had  never  interfered  with  the  religion  of  Agnese. 
In  truth,  she  needed  all  the  consolation  which  this 
thought  could  yield  her,  to  enable  her  to  look  with 
calmness  on  the  dying  child,  as  she  lay,  day  after  day, 
on  her  little  couch — calm,  still,  and  pale,  her  hands 
folded  meekly  on  her  bosom,  and  deprived,  by  her 
blindness,  of  the  amusements  and  distractions  of  other 
invalids.  To  Lady  Oranmore's  fancy  this  state  of 
compelled  inaction  added  to  the  sufferings  of  Agnese ; 
yet  it  was  not  so  in  reality,  for  her  heart  and  soul  were 
so  constantly  with  Jesus  in  the  sacrament  of  His  love, 
that  Magdalen,  at  His  very  feet,  could  hardly  have  felt 
less  need  of  external  occupation.  Such  was  her  medi- 
tation, and  such  her  attitude  at  the  present  moment; 
but  after  she  had  lain  a  little  while  quite  still  and 
silent,  her  eyes  closed,  and  the  bright  colour  coming 
up  into  her  face,  as  the  soft  strains  of  the  hymn  rose 
louder,  she  whispered  to  her  sister — 

"It  is  louder  now,  dear  Grace.  Look  out  from  the 
balcony  and  tell  me  if  He  is  not  coming  this  way." 

"No!"  answered  Grace.  "I  see  not  the  procession, 
but  yet  it  must  be  coming,  the  voices  are  so  distinct. 

There,  now  it  has  turned  the  corner ;  and but,  holy 

Mother  of  God,  what  a  sight  to  see!"  she  cried,  sud- 
denly interrupting  herself,  and  falling  on  her  knees 
in  the  open  balcony. 


BLIND  AGNESE  141 

It  was,  indeed,  as  she  said,  a  sight  to  see.  She  was 
looking  down  upon  a  large  square,  full  of  buyers, 
sellers,  idlers,  animals,  carriages,  ludicrous  exhibitions, 
and  spectacles  of  all  kinds.  The  Neapolitans,  who  al- 
most live  in  the  open  air,  were  all  in  their  open  stalls, 
pursuing  their  several  occupations,  and  knocking, 
hammering,  shaving,  weaving,  sowing,  filing,  and  plan- 
ing; water  vendors  were  preparing  their  beverages; 
fishwomen  selling  their  fish;  housekeepers  cooking 
their  dinners — fish,  chicken,  and  macaroni :  and  all 
the  members  of  this  vast  assembly  were  screaming  at 
the  very  top  of  their  voices,  when  the  procession  of 
the  Blessed  Sacrament  entered  the  square. 

Then,  as  if  by  magic,  every  voice  was  mute,  every 
hat  was  doffed,  every  craft  abandoned.  The  fish- 
women  ceased  to  sell;  the  housekeeper  to  cook;  the 
showman  to  display  his  wares;  the  jester  even  to 
crack  his  jokes;  and  every  creature,  of  those  busy 
thousands,  was  on  his  knees,  awed  into  silence  and  the 
hush  of  prayer.  Grace  Netterville  well  might  pro- 
nounce it  "a  sight  to  see."  She  did  not  look  round 
again  until  some  few  minutes  after  the  procession 
had  passed  from  beneath  the  balcony;  and  when  she 
did  so,  the  square  had  resumed  its  usual  appearance — 
business  and  folly  being  once  more  mingled  together, 
as  the  order  of  the  day. 

"In  truth,  it  is  wonderful,"  she  said,  half  aloud; 
"the  faith  of  this  people,  and  their  devotion." 

"And  which  of  them  will  be  the  better  for  it?"  re- 
plied Lady  Oranmore,  coldly,  for  she  sometimes 
sought  a  false  peace  of  mind  in  contending  against 
her  conscience  with  the  religion  of  her  grandchildren. 


142  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Which  of  them  will  cheat  the  less,  or  quarrel  the  less, 
or  gamble  the  less,  for  all  this  display  of  devotion 
which  seems  so  admirable  to  you?" 

"Many,  I  should  hope,"  said  May.  "But  if  it  were 
only  one,  how  often  has  Jesus  preached  to  the  crowd 
in  Judea,  and  been  contended  by  the  conversion  of  a 
single  individual?  Zaccheus,  for  instance,  the  sole 
penitent  in  the  crowd  which  left  Jericho  to  meet  Him ; 
Matthew,  called  to  His  especial  service,  from  amid 
the  multitude,  that  yet  were  employed  in  glorifying 
God ;  and  Magdalen,  for  we  read  of  none  but  her  con- 
verted iat  the  supper  of  Simeon." 

"It  is  true,"  retorted  Lady  Oranmore,  "only  one 
convert  is  particularly  mentioned  in  each  of  these  in- 
stances, yet  it  does  not  follow  that  many  may  not 
have  been  secretly  drawn  towards  their  Saviour,  and 
converted  at  the  same  time,  though  in  a  less  ostensible 
and  singular  manner." 

"Well,"  said  May,  "admitting  it  were,  indeed,  but 
one  in  that  vast  multitude  below,  He,  who  died  for 
each  individual,  surely  would  not  think  the  conversion 
of  even  one  a  useless  labour.  And  though  it  were 
even  not  an  entire  conversion — but  only  a  crime  the 
less — one  bargain  fairly  made — one  oath  unuttered — 
one  irreverent  jest  unsaid — surely  He,  who  died  for 
every  separate  sin,  would  not  deem  that  He  had  been 
borne  through  the  crowd  in  vain;  and  though  even 
(which  seems  impossible)  no  single  crime  had  been 
prevented — no  sinner  checked  in  his  evil  ways — were 
it  but  for  the  comfort  of  one  afflicted  heart — for  the 
giving  of  hope  to  one  despairing  soul — for  the  re- 
minding of  one  in  bodily  suffering  of  all  that  He  had 


BLIND  AGNESE  143 

suffered  in  the  body  for  them — surely,  He  who  passed 
His  life  in  the  consolation  of  His  creatures  would 
not  reckon  that  He  had  come  in  vain ;  and  though  none 
of  all  these  things  were  done,  and  that  it  was  but  9 
single  spark  of  Divine  love  falling  upon  a  spirit,  in- 
nocent before,  but  inactive,  for  want  of  the  high  in- 
spiration of  His  charity,  surely,  surely,  He  who  came 
to  cast  fire  upon  earth  would  not  grudge  His  pres- 
ence, by  which  it  had  been  enkindled." 

May  Netterville  paused  in  her  passionate  address, 
and  mutually,  as  if  by  a  single  impulse,  she  and 
Lady  Oranmore  cast  their  eyes  upon  Agnese.  The 
child  was  kneeling  on  the  bed,  and  with  her  soft  eyes 
closed,  her  long  hairs  parted  smoothly  on  her  fore- 
head, and  her  white  robes  flowing  round  her,  she 
seemed  like  an  answer  to  the  thoughts  of  each. 
"Would  He  grudge  it?" 

May  could  not  forbear  adding,  in  a  whisper — 

"Though  it  were  only  to  visit  such  a  soul  as  that." 

Then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  passed 
to  the  bed,  and  drew  her  sister  gently  towards  the  pil- 
low, saying — 

"Lie  down,  dearest;  it  is  yet  a  long  time  to  Fran- 
cesco's hour.  Lie  down,  or  you  will  be  weary." 

Agnese  lay  down  as  she  was  desired,  whispering, 
at  the  same  time,  with  a  heavenly  smile  upon  her 
countenance — 

"Is  it  not  lovely,  Grace?  And  did  I  not  tell  you, 
that  here  the  very  air  was  full  of  Jesus?" 

"Yes,  indeed!"  Grace  answered,  in  the  same  sub- 
dued voice.  "And  it  is  sweet  to  live  in  such  an  atmos- 
phere of  love  and  faith." 


144  BLIND  AGNESE 

"He  is  everywhere  in  Italy,"  returned  Agnese;  "in 
the  people's  hearts  and  on  their  lips,  and  in  the 
churches ;  and  even  in  the  very  streets  we  meet  Him." 

"And  He  is  in  the  hearts  of  our  own  home  people, 
too,  Agnese,  if  you  would  but  think  it,"  answered 
May,  in  a  tone  as  nearly  of  reproach  as  she 
could  use  towards  the  gentle  creature  she  so  tenderly 
cherished.  "His  faith  and  love  are  with  us  also ;  only 
we  are  forced  to  lock  up  in  our  hearts  the  thoughts 
which  these  may  prate  of  to  every  idle  air.  But  you 
won't  believe  it." 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  do  believe  it,  May;  it  would  be 
strange  if  I  could  doubt  it,  after  all  that  passed  on 
that  terrible  day;"  and  Agnese  shuddered,  as  she  al- 
ways did  whenever  she  recurred  to  the  day  of  Father 
Netterville's  murder.  Poor  child !  she  had  good  reason 
to  remember  it  with  horror,  for  she  had  been  with 
(old  Moya  at  the  moment  when  the  latter,  entering  the 
cavern  unperceived,  became  an  eye-witness  of  the 
priest's  violent  death,  which  her  cries  soon  revealed 
to  her  sightless  companion;  and  the  shock  had  gone 
far  to  destroy  the  little  strength  yet  left  Agnese,  to 
contend  with  the  various  influences  that  were  drawing 
her  towards  the  grave. 

May  Netterville  walked  to  the  window — she  also 
could  never  speak  of  that  fearful  event  without  a  shud- 
der, and  something  more  than  a  shudder  of  grief  and 
horror,  for  indignation,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to 
prevent  it,  would  mingle  with  her  feelings;  and  it 
cost  her  many  a  battle  with  her  proud  and  passionate 
nature  to  still  the  loathing  ever  rising  within  her,  at 
.the  bare  recollection  of  the  guilty,  yet,  as  she  could 


BLIND.  AGNESE  145 

not  but  acknowledge  to  herself,  most  repentant 
brother;  and  she  was  yet  struggling  with  the  storm 
which  her  sister's  observation  had  awakened  in  her 
bosom,  when  a  servant  entered  to  tell  her  of  a  per- 
son asking  an  interview  with  her.  May  was  so  com- 
pletely preoccupied,  that  she  could  scarcely  be  said  to 
hear  him,  although  she  mechanically  followed  him  to 
a  room,  which  he  indicated  by  throwing  wide  the  door, 
and  into  this  she  entered,  without  having  formed  one 
conjecture  as  to  who  or  what  the  person  was  who  de- 
sired to  see  her.  He  was  sitting  near  the  window,  his 
back  towards  her,  and  his  face  buried  in  both  his 
hands.  May  was  startled,  something  in  his  attitude 
was  so  familiar,  that  she  could  not  help  fancying  she 
had  seen  him  before;  but  as  he  did  not  look  up,  or 
give  any  other  indication  of  being  aware  of  her  pres- 
ence, she  advanced  a  few  steps  towards  him,  in  hopes 
of  arousing  his  attention.  Far  from  having  this  effect, 
however,  the  sound  of  her  footsteps  seemed  to  shrink 
him  yet  more  completely  into  himself,  and  he  bowed 
himself  down,  until  his  brow  rested  upon  the  table,  as 
if  thus  he  hoped  more  entirely  to  conceal  his  identity 
from  her.  May  began  to  feel  exceedingly  awkward : — 

"You  sent  for  me,  sir  ?"  she  said,  at  last,  in  English, 
a  secret  instinct  seeming  to  tell  her  that  the  man  before 
her  was  not  Italian.  Something  very  like  a  shudder 
passed  over  the  stranger's  frame ;  but  he  made  no  an- 
swer. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  continued  May,  with  a  little  im- 
patience in  her  voice  and  manner ;  "I  would  not  hurry 
you  if  I  could  help  it,  but  I  have  left  the  bedside 
of  a  dying  sister  to  attend  your  summons." 


146  BLIND  AGNESE 

i 

"Believe  me,  I  would  not  idly  have  intruded  on  your 

sorrow." 

"John  Netterville !"  cried  May,  recoiling  a  step  in 
amazement,  as  the  stranger,  in  saying  these  few  words, 
stood  up  and  removed  his  hands  from  before  his  face. 

"I  knew  you  must  loathe  me ;  I  knew  you  must  de- 
test and  hold  me  in  abhorrence;  but  I  almost  hoped 
you  would  forgive  me,"  said  that  unhappy  man,  in 
a  tone  of  despair;  and,  sitting  down  again,  he  passed 
his  hands  once  more  over  his  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  his 
niece's  involuntary  look  of  disgust. 

For  one  moment  May  was  tempted  to  leave  the  room 
in  contemptuous  silence;  and  then  she  had  to  strug- 
gle hard  against  the  proud  and  angry  spirit  which 
prompted  her  to  pour  out  a  torrent  of  stinging  re- 
proaches on  the  fratricide.  But  she  thought  upon 
Him  who  but  a  few  minutes  before  had  passed  be- 
neath her  eyes,  preaching  peace,  and  mercy,  and  par- 
don unto  men,  and  she  checked  the  movement.  She 
remembered  how  He  from  the  very  cross  had  pardoned 
all  His  enemies.  His  "Father  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do,"  seemed  to  ring  in  her  ears, 
and  she  resolved  that  she  also  would  pardon,  and 
not  coldly  or  by  halves,  but  fully,  generously,  and 
without  conditions,  even  as  He  had  done,  when  he  said 
to  the  repentant  thief — "This  day  shalt  thou  be  with 
me  in  Paradise" — and,  promptly  answering  to  the  in- 
.  spiration,  she  flung  her  arms  round  her  uncle's  neck, 
*  exclaiming — 

"I  will  forgive  you — I  do  forgive  you;  and  I  pray 
you  to  pardon  me,  for  I  have  been  very  guilty  in  my 
thoughts  of  you." 


BLIND  AGNESE  147 

John  Netterville  made  no  reply.  This  very  unex- 
pected answer  to  his  appeal  roused  all  of  good  and 
human  feeling  that  yet  lived  within  him,  and,  com- 
pletely thrown  off  his  guard  by  the  suddenness  of  his 
niece's  movement,  he  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  hush,  hush !"  cried  May,  kneeling  down  beside 
him,  and  unconsciously  kissing  his  hand,  so  moved 
was  she  to  behold  that  strong  man  sobbing  like  a  child. 
"Do  not  weep  so  sadly;  I  pray  you  not  to  weep  so 
sadly.  He  is  happy — they  are  happy — they  are  pray- 
ing for  us  even  now — and  the  love  which  on  earth 
they  felt  for  us  both,  they  are  at  this  very  moment 
communicating  to  us,  for  each  other.  Is  it  not  so, 
dear  uncle  ?  for  do  I  not  begin  to  feel  that  you  are  my 
father's  brother?  and  do  you  not  likewise  feel  that  I 
am  your  brother's  child?" 

"I  feel  that  you  are  an  angel  of  pity  and  of  peace  to 
me — I  who  have  sinned  so  deeply  against  you.  Yes, 
even  more  against  you  than  against  any  other,  al- 
though you  are  too  generous  to  reproach  me  with  the 
ill-treatment." 

Unconsciously  May  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 
There  was  still  a  slight  scar  upon  her  brow.  The  squire 
had  made  good  his  threat — she  felt  she  would  carry 
his  mark  to  her  dying  day. 

"To  lift  my  hand  against  a  woman — and  my  own 
niece,  too !  But  I  did  not  know  then  who  you  were, 
and,  without  doubt,  God  permitted  my  ignorance,  in 
order  to  make  me  more  fully  the  instrument  of  my 
own  chastisement.  Not  until  long  afterwards,  when 
I  heard  you  speak  to  Daniel  in  the  cavern,  did  I  know 
that  you,  or  he,  or  my  mother,"  he  added,  almost  con- 


148  BLIND  AGNESE 

vulsively,  "were  yet  in  existence.  From  the  hour 
when  my  own  wickedness  drove  them  from  their 
home,  I  had  had  no  communication  with  them,  or  with 
any  other  member  of  my  family." 

"But  why  were  you  there  at  all?"  asked  May,  sud- 
denly yielding  to  a  curiosity  she  had  often  felt  upon 
the  subject  of  the  squire's  presence  in  the  chapel  cave 
— "Why  were  you  there?  for  you  sent  the  soldiers 
to  the  other  cave." 

"Both  were  to  have  been  occupied;  but  the  sea  ran 
so  high  they  were  afraid  of  entering  the  one  into 
which  I,  more  prompt  in  wickedness,  had  run  my 
boat  an  hour  or  two  before;  they  managed,  however, 
to  make  good  their  entrance  into  the  other,  and,  in 
exploring  it,  they  came  upon  the  secret  passage,  by 
which  it  communicated  with  the  dead  man's  cave,  of 
which  I  myself  was  not  aware." 

"But  when  you  discovered  who  he  was,  of  whom 
you  were  in  pursuit,  why  did  you  not  warn  him  of  his 
danger  ?" 

"I  knew  it  was  too  late.  The  whole  island  was  sur- 
rounded, and  the  affair  had  been  put  into  the  hands  of 
a  man  who,  as  you  saw  yourself,  knew  not  what  it 
was  to  pardon  or  to  pity.  Still  I  shuddered  to  appear 
as  the  murderer  of  my  brother,  and  so  I  thought  I 
would  linger  in  the  mass  cavern  until  all  was  over. 
In  my  horrow  and  agitation,  I  quite  forgot  the  spring- 
tide, and,  when  I  did  remember  it,  it  was  too  late — 
my  boat  had  disappeared,  taken,  probably,  by  some 
of  the  people  in  the  hurry  of  departure,  and  as  a  last 
hope  of  safety  I  climbed  the  altar;  but  I  put  out  my 
shoulder  in  doing  so." 


BLIND  AGNESE  149 

May  Netterville  groaned — the  whole  scene  of  that 
woeful  day  passed  so  vividly  before  her  imagination, 
that  all  her  old  feelings  revived,  and  she  withdrew 
her  hand;  but  remembering  Him  whose  example  she 
was  trying  to  imitate,  she  repressed  the  impulse,  and 
once  more  replaced  it  in  that  of  her  uncle.  Slight 
as  had  been  the  movement,  he  felt  it,  guessed  its 
meaning,  and  sighed  as  he  said — 

"You  forgive  me,  May,  because  it  is  your  duty ;  but 
you  do  not — you  cannot  love  me — no  one  will  ever 
love  me  any  more." 

"Do  not  say  so — indeed,  indeed,  I  will  love  you," 
May  answered  earnestly — "And  there  are  others  who 
will  love  you  better :  you  have  a  wife,  a  child." 

"No,"  said  the  Squire,  groaning — "she  is  dead,  and 
the  child  has  learned  to  shudder  at  the  sight  of  his 
guilty  father." 

"Dead !  Good  God !"  cried  May — "I  never  saw  her ; 
but  they  told  me  she  was  so  young  and  so  fair !" 

"And  so  she  was,  both  young  and  very  fair.  And 
God  is  my  witness  that  I  loved  her  truly,  and  she 
loved  me  also,  until  that  fatal  day.  Oh,  my  God! 
May  Netterville,  how  I  have  been  punished;  and  how 
He  has  made  my  crime  to  be  my  chastisement.  The 
brother  whom  I  murdered,  not  because  I  hated  him, 
but  because  I  hated  the  religion  of  which  he  was  a 
minister.  And  I  hated  it,  May!  now,  I  must  confess 
it,  only  because  of  its  just  denunciations  against  those 
who  deserted  from  its  holiness  and  truth — And  the 
mother  whose  heart  I  have  broken — And  now,  at  last, 
my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  only  child — Oh,  that 
was  the  worst  of  all!  To  know  that  I  was  loathed 


150  BLIND  AGNESE 

by  one,  who  had  so  loved  me — that  she  now  shrunk 
from  my  caresses,  who  used  to  smile  so  brightly  at 
the  very  hearing  of  my  footsteps — to  see  her  grow 
pale,  and  languid,  and  lifeless,  in  the  untold  horrors 
of  her  soul;  to  feel  she  was  withering  away  in  the 
poisonous  atmosphere  of  my  guilt;  and  at  last  to 
watch  her  dying — dying,  and  not  in  my  arms — for 
even  in  the  death  agony  I  saw  her  struggle  with  the 
terror  which  the  very  touch  of  the  fratricide  im- 
parted; and  I  would  not  add  to  the  anguish  of  that 
hour — so  she  died  in  peace,  believing  herself  alone, 
and  little  dreaming  of  the  guilty  wretch  who  lay 
gasping  on  the  floor  of  her  chamber,  and  who  would 
gladly — how  gladly ! — have  exchanged  places  with  any 
one  of  the  victims  of  his  crimes." 

"And  the  child,  the  poor  child !"  cried  May,  wring- 
ing her  uncle's  hands  in  her  strong  sympathy  with 
his  woe. 

"It  was  all  the  same — he  had  marked  his  mother's 
brow  grow  pale  as  I  looked  upon  her,  and  her  voice 
to  quiver  as  she  answered  my  inquiries — and  so  he 
learned  to  do  the  like!  And  unused  as  he  is  to  tears, 
and  almost  too  old  for  them  (for  the  boy  is  nearly  ten 
years  of  age),  he  almost  screamed  himself  into  fits 
when  I  took  leave  of  him  over  the  grave  of  his 
mother."  May  thought  the  agitation  of  the  father, 
and  the  place  which  he  had  chosen  for  their  parting 
scene,  might  have  had  something  to  say  to  this  terror, 
and  she  ventured  to  suggest  it  to  her  uncle;  but  he 
only  shook  his  head. 

"The  mother's  mantle  has  fallen  upon  the  child — 
my  son  both  fears  and  hates  me.  But  it  is  no  mat- 


BLIND  AGNESE  151 

ter,  for  I  shall  never  see  him  more.  To-morrow  I 
enter  a  convent  of  the  Camaldolesi,  and  the  rest  of 
my  days  will  be  spent  in  complying  with  your  request, 
May.  The  last  half  of  my  life  will  be  spent  in  weep- 
ing over  the  first." 

"Then  you  have  abandoned  your  child?" 

"No,  May  Netterville,  I  have  not  abandoned,  I  have 
but  left  him  in  better  hands — I  have  confided  him  to 
you." 

"To  me?"  said  the  wondering  May. 

"See  here,"  said  the  squire,  "is  a  document  signed 
by  me,  in  which,  under  age  as  you  are  yourself,  I  have 
given  to  you  the  entire  guardianship  of  my  child.  No 
one  but  myself  has  a  right  to  interfere  with  your  au- 
thority, and  that  right  I  resign  entirely  to  you;  and 
here  is  another  deed,  securing  to  you  the  whole  Net- 
terville estates,  to  which  I  have  no  real  claim.  I  have 
assigned  you  a  guardian,  because  such  was  needful  in 
the  eye  of  the  law;  but  he  has  promised  to  interfere 
in  nothing,  and  to  leave  you  as  much  mistress  of  your 
property  as  if  he  were  not  in  existence." 

"1  am  young  for  such  a  charge,"  said  May,  un- 
consciously speaking  her  thoughts  aloud. 

"You  are  young  in  years,  but,  if  I  have  read  your 
soul  aright,  you  will  do  your  duty  nobly.  Take  this 
paper,  which  will  make  you  but  mistress  of  your  own. 
I  have  reserved  nothing  for  my  son — he  is  a  beggar 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  as  the  child  of  a  blood-stained 
renegade  should  be." 

"I  cannot  accept  of  it — it  is  impossible,"  said  May, 
resolutely;  "however  much  I  may  admire  such  re- 
pentance, I  cannot  consent  to  be  a  gainer  by  it." 


152  BLIND  AGNESE 

"You  cannot  help  yourself,"  said  her  uncle.  "This 
is  but  a  copy — the  original  deed  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
lawyers  who  drew  it  up." 

"But  surely,"  remonstrated  May,  "you  have  no  right 
to  will  away  from  your  son,  however  the  property  was 
obtained.  He  is  now  your  heir." 

"I  have  every  right — the  property  is  not  entailed; 
and  this  is  but  an  act  of  simple  justice.  Think  you 
such  ill-gotten  wealth  would  prosper  my  child?  Be- 
lieve me,  it  is  only  by  removing  it  from  him  that  I 
hope  to  free  himself  from  that  terrible  judgment, 
which  avenges  the  crime  of  the  parents  on  the  chil- 
dren, even  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation.  And 
now,  daughter  and  niece  of  my  murdered  brethren, 
let  me  hear  you  say  once  more  that  you  forgive  me !" 

This  time  May  murmured  her  pardon  through  tears 
of  real  tenderness  and  pity — it  may  be  even  of  admira- 
tion for  the  heroism  of  soul  which  thus  proportioned 
its  penitence  to  the  greatness  of  its  crimes.  Earnestly, 
also,  she  promised  love  and  protection  to  her  little 
cousin;  and  the  unhappy  man,  having  once  more 
wrung  her  hand,  abruptly  quitted  the  apartment. 

For  a  few  seconds  after  his  departure  May  stood 
like  a  statue,  revolving  the  past  and  future  in  her  soul. 
In  those  few  seconds  her  prompt  and  energetic  mind 
had  seized  upon  all  the  bearings  of  her  position,  and 
laid  down  the  whole  plan  of  her  future  life — the  edu- 
cation of  her  cousin  in  the  religion  of  his  forefathers 
— the  resignation  of  the  property  into  his  hands  as 
soon  as  he  had  arrived  at  years  of  discretion,  and  her 
own  subsequent  entire  renunciation  of  and  retirement 
from  the  world.  How  well  and  religiously  she  ad- 


BLIND  AGNESE  153 

hered  to  that  plan  it  is  easy  to  conceive,  for  hers 
was  peculiarly  one  of  those  happy  characters  with 
whom  to  will  and  to  do  is  almost  one  and  the  same 
thing.  While  still  wrapt  in  deep  thought,  she  left 
the  room,  walked  to  that  occupied  by  Agnese,  placed 
the  packet  received  from  the  squire  in  Lady  Oran- 
more's  hands,  and  said,  like  one  awakening  from  a 
dream — 

"Grandmama !  you  asked  me  but  a  minute  ago  what 
good  He  did,  when  borne  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
through  the  streets  below,  and  now  I  can  answer  your 
question — for  my  enemy  has  been  here  and  I  have 
forgiven  him." 
"Your  enemy,  dear  May." 

"John  Netterville,  the  murderer  of  my  father  and 
my  mother,  and  of  one  who  was  even  more  than  father 
or  than  mother  unto  me." 
"John  Netterville !  and  here !" 
"He  has  but  this  moment  left  the  house!" 
Lady  Oranmore,  who  knew  her  grandchild's  strong 
feelings  and  unyielding  will,  looked  upon  her,  aston- 
ishment mingling  with  her  admiration.     "Then  you 
have  forgiven  him;  my  child,  you  have  acted  nobly. 
Well,  I  know  it  was  a  difficult,  almost  I  had  called  it 
an  impossible  deed." 

"It  would  have  been  either  or  both,  had  I  not  so 
lately  been  kneeling  before  Him  in  the  sacrament  of 
His  love.  But  the  recollection  of  Him,  and  of  His 
abundant  forgiveness  of  His  enemies,  so  softened  my 
heart  that  the  task  was  easy." 

"Now,  indeed,  dear  May,"  said  Lady  Oranmore, 
affectionately  embracing  her  grandchild,  "I  am  willing 


154  BLIND  AGNESE 

to  confess  that  He  did  not  walk  through  the  streets 
in  vain." 

Agnese  started  from  the  sofa,  and  threw  herself  at 
her  grandmother's  feet.  So  quick  was  the  movement 
there  was  no  time  either  to  foresee  or  prevent  it. 

"Oh,  grandmama,  you  believe  in  His  eucharistic 
reality.  You  say  Him.  Then  you  will  belong  to  the 
church  where  only  He  is  to  be  found  in  the  sacrament 
of  His  love?" 

"I  do — I  will,  my  precious  one,"  whispered  Lady 
Oranmore,  clasping  Agnese  to  her  bosom,  and  weep- 
ing like  a  child. 

May  saw  that  the  effort  had  been  too  much  for  Ag- 
nese; so  she  gently  untwined  Lady  Oranmore's  arms 
from  around  her,  and  laid  her  on  the  couch. 

"Go  you  with  her  to  the  church,"  whispered  Lady 
Oranmore ;  "I  will  follow  soon ;  at  present  I  would  be 
alone." 

She  left  the  room,  and  there  was  a  long  pause 
during  which  May  hung  anxiously  over  her  pale 
sister. 

"May,"  whispered  the  latter,  as  soon  as  she  had 
breath  to  speak,  "you  have  made  her  a  Catholic." 

But  May  shook  her  head. 

"I  think,  dear  Agnese,  you  have  done  more  with 
your  quiet  love  than  I  with  my  vehement  and  im- 
petuous nature.  I  would  I  knew  how  you  did  learn  to 
love  Him  so." 

"I  think  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Agnese,  hesitating; 
"at  least  in  part.". 

"Do,  dearest,  if  it  will  not  weary  you,  for  you  are 
quite  as  much  a  mystery  to  me,  with  your  deep  and 


BLIND  AGNESE  155 

holy  thoughts,  as  I  fear  my  fiery  ones  sometimes  make 
me  be  to  you." 

"I  should  like  to  tell  you,"  said  Agnese;  "it  would 
be  a  kind  of  relief  to  me,  for  I  have  been  thinking 
very  much  about  it  this  morning,  and  it  almost  seems 
as  if  my  thoughts  went  back  of  themselves  to  things 
I  had  nearly  forgotten,  and  to  the  very  beginning  of 
my  love  for  Jesus.  I  remember  the  first  time  I  ever 
thought  about  it ;  I  was  a  very  little  child,  and  I  asked 
what  was  my  name.  Benita  said  it  was  Agnese,  and 
that  Agnese  meant  Lamb — and  that  Jesus  also  was 
called  a  lamb,  and  so,  as  my  name  was  the  name  of 
Jesus,  I  ought  always  to  try  and  be  resembling  to  Him. 
And  I  asked  how  that  might  be — and  she  said  that 
lambs  were  gentle  creatures,  and  very  meek,  and  so, 
therefore,  I  ought  to  be  meek  likewise ;  and  from  that 
time  I  did  try  very  hard  to  be  meek,  and  never  to 
make  the  least  movement  like  impatience;  but  still  I 
could  not  help  feeling  very  sad,  because  people  used 
to  call  me  poor  Agnese,  and  poor  blind  child,  and  I 
knew,  therefore,  it  was  a  misfortune  to  be  blind;  ancj 
this  made  me  weep  sadly  that  I  could  not  see.  The 
children,  also,  would  talk  to  me  of  seeing  this  or 
seeing  that,  and  I  could  not  see  at  all,  but  I  could  hear 
them  play,  and  laugh,  and  run  around  me,  and  I  was 
afraid  of  running,  for  fear  of  falling,  so  I  used  to 
sit  at  the  door  and  listen  to  them,  and  to  feel  so  lonely 
in  the  midst  of  their  merry  romps,  and  so  sad  that 
the  tears  were  often  in  my  eyes  whether  I  would  or 
no.  Sometimes,  also,  the  little  ones  who  did  not  know 
me,  came  to  ask  me  to  join  in  their  games,  but  the 
others  would  check  them,  and  say — Hush,  that  is 


156  BLIND  AGNESE 

blind  Agnese,  she  cannot  play  about  as  we  do — do  not 
remind  her  of  her  misfortune.  They  did  not  mean  me 
to  hear  them,  but  I  could  not  help  doing  so;  at  other 
times,  it  has  happened  that  ill-natured  children  have 
mocked  me  for  the  blindness  which  the  others  pitied. 
I  could  not  cry  then ;  it  would  have  been  a  relief  if  I 
could;  but  I  felt  too  desolate  to  cry.  Still  I  did  not 
answer  them  unkindly.  I  tried  rather  to  be  kinder  to 
them  than  before,  for  I  had  not  forgotten  that  Jesus 
was  meek,  and  that,  to  be  like  Him,  I  also  must  be 
meek  likewise.  One  day  my  grandmama,  Benita,  said 
to  me,  'Agnese,  my  little  one,  come  with  me,  I  am 
going  to  see  some  nuns,  who  love  the  Lamb  very  much, 
indeed,  and  who  pray  night  and  day  before  him.'  'Do 
they  see  Him,  grandmama?'  I  asked;  for  I  did  not 
then  know  whether  He  were  visible  or  invisible  to 
those  who  had  eyes  for  other  things.  'They  see  the 
Blessed  Sacrament,  in  which  He  dwells  upon  our  al- 
tars, my  child,'  replied  Benita.  I  was  very  glad  to 
think  I  should  see  those  who  lived  with  the  Lamb, 
and  could  tell  me  what  the  Lamb  was  like;  and  so  I 
went  with  Benita  to  the  convent,  where  Lady  Oran- 
more  took  me  just  before  we  left  Naples.  Though  I 
was  such  a  very  little  child,  I  remember  that  first 
visit  just  as  if  it  took  place  yesterday.  Benita  talked 
for  a  long  time  to  the  Superioress;  but  I  was  think- 
ing so  much  of  the  Lamb,  and  longing  to  go  visit  the 
altar  where  they  always  prayed  before  Him,  that  I 
did  not  much  attend  to  what  they  were  saying.  At 
last  one  of  the  nuns  asked  me  if  I  would  come  to  the 
church.  'Is  the  Lamb  there?'  I  asked,  quite  inno- 
cently; 'Because,  if  he  is,  I  should  like  to  go.'  'Yes, 


BLIND  AGNESE  157 

my  child,  the  Lamb  is  ever  on  our  altar/  replied  the 
nun.  Directly  I  heard  that,  I  gave  her  my  hand,  and 
very  joyfully  accompanied  her  to  the  church.  When 
we  approached  the  altar,  the  air  felt  very  warm;  she 
told  me  it  was  the  immense  number  of  lights  burn- 
ing upon  it  that  made  it  so,  and  leading  me  to  the 
side  of  one  of  the  adorers  of  the  hour,  whispered — 
'Kneel  down,  my  child;  the  Lamb  is  before  you,  on 
His  altar  throne.'  I  knelt  down — all  was  so  calm,  so 
solemn,  and  so  still,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  entered  heaven. 
It  was,  indeed,  as  though  Jesus  Himself  was  at  my 
side,  speaking  a  new  language  to  my  heart,  and  steal- 
ing all  His  sweetness  over  it.  I  did  not  say  anything 
to  Him,  or  ask  anything  of  Him;  I  only  felt  that  He 
was  near,  and  that  was  joy  enough  for  me.  By  de- 
grees the  quiet  happiness  grew  more  quiet,  and  the 
calm  feeling  calmer  still;  and  I  suppose,"  continued 
Agnese,  making  evidently  a  great  effort  to  overcome 
her  reluctance  to  speak  upon  the  subject — "I  suppose 
I  fell  asleep — for  all  that  followed  must,  surely,  have 
been  a  dream.  I  thought  I  was  still  kneeling  between 
His  two  adorers  at  the  altar" — 

"Agnese,"  interrupted  May,  "did  you  think  you  saw 
them  then?" 

"At  the  moment  I  thought  I  did.  But  it  is  all  now 
like  a  vision,  the  memory  of  which  has  passed  away,  as 
is  so  often  the  case  with  dreams,  and  I  cannot  tell 
you  in  the  least  what  they  were  like.  I  only  remem- 
ber feeling  that  I  might  have  thought  them  figures  cut 
in  stone,  they  were  so  unbreathing  and  so  still,  had 
not  something  about  them  seemed  to  say,  that  though 
the  bodies  were  so  motionless,  the  living  souls  within 


158  BLIND  AGNESE 

were  wide  awaKe,  and  full  of  life,  bowed  down  before 
the  'Holy  of  Holies,'  and  only  silent  from  intensity 
of  love." 

"Agnese,  you  must  have  seen  them,"  cried  May; 
"you  describe  them  to  the  very  life,  just  as  I  saw 
them  yesterday  at  the  convent." 

Agnese's  pale  face  flushed  a  little — "I  do  not  know, 
May,  how  that  could  be,  as  I  have  said  it  was  all  a 
dream  and  mystery  to  me.  After  I  had  watched  these 
mute  adorers  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  a  lady 
seemed  to  stand  beside  me;  I  do  not  know  how  or 
from  whence  she  came,  but  there  she  was — a  lamb  in 
her  arms,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  me,  until  I  felt 
their  soft,  sweet  glances  penetrate  my  soul." 

"Did  you  see  her  too,  Agnese?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  May,"  replied  Agnese,  with  a 
little  uneasiness  in  her  voice  and  manner.  "I  can 
only  tell  you  that  I  felt  as  if  a  vision  of  beauty  were 
at  my  side;  and  while  I  yet  knelt,  in  awful  admira- 
tion, her  voice  fell  on  my  ear.  May !  only  to  hear  one 
tone  of  a  voice  like  hers  would  make  a  paradise  of 
the  most  desolate  heart  upon  earth." 

"And  what  said  the  Mother  of  the  Lamb?  for 
surely  it  was  she  who  showed  herself  to  your  sleeping 
fancies." 

"  'Namesake  of  Jesus,  what  would  you  have  ?'  It 
was  thus  she  spoke — and  then,  as  if  she  had  read  the 
instant  thought  of  my  heart,  she  added — 'that  you 
may  see  ?  Oh,  ask  it  not.  Rather  pray  that  the  light 
may  be  given  to  your  soul  which  has  been  withheld 
by  infinite  wisdom  from  your  body;  for  though  with 
your  corporal  vision  you  might  behold  his  Sacramental 


BLIND  AGNESE  159 

presence,  still  it  is  by  the  eye  of  faith,  never  refused 
even  to  the  poor  blind  child,  that  man  is  taught  to 
see  Him  there,  as  the  angels  do  in  heaven,  in  His 
divinity  and  His  glorified  humanity.  Child  of  sor- 
row, I  am  your  mother !  The  mother  of  all  the  chil- 
dren of  sorrow,  as  I  am  of  Him  who  took  their  af- 
flictions on  Himself — all  their  afflictions.  Not  a  pain 
of  body,  or  of  mind,  that  His  creatures  are  given  to 
endure,  which  He  Himself  did  not  first  make  sacred, 
and  consecrate  in  His  own  person.  For  in  the  spirit 
He  made  desolate,  and  full  of  anguish — and  in  the 
body,  from  the  crown  of  His  Head  to  the  sole  of  his 
foot,  the  words  of  the  prophecy  were  accomplished 
to  the  full,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  spot  left  about 
Him — no,  not  one  single  spot  without  its  separate  and 
distinct  allotment  of  woe.' " 

"I  have  told  you,  May,"  continued  Agnese,  "that 
the  voice  of  the  Lady  was  very  sweet — so  sweet,  it 
was  like  being  in  paradise  only  to  sit  and  hear  it.  And 
sweeter  and  sweeter  it  seemed  to  grow,  as  she  pro- 
ceeded— sweeter  and  sweeter  yet.  But,  oh!  so  sad. 
And  when  she  spoke  about  His  woe,  it  moved  my  very 
soul  to  tears,  filling  and  steeping  it,  as  it  were,  in  her 
own  sorrow;  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  came  to 
comprehend  how  she,  like  the  Blessed  One  of  whom 
she  spoke,  kept  all  the  unmingled  bitterness  of  her 
chalice  to  herself,  giving  only  of  its  more  soft  and 
soothing  sadness  to  her  children.  Yet,  would  you  be- 
lieve it  May,  even  at  that  moment  the  thought  crossed 
my  mind — and  a  wicked  one  it  was  for  such  a  mo- 
ment— that  if  He  had  endured  all  other  woes,  He  had 
not  taken  mine  upon  Himself?  It  was  but  a  passing 


160  BLIND  AGNESE 

thought,  repented  of  almost  as  soon  as  I  was  con- 
scious of  it.  But,  as  before,  the  lady  answered  to 
that  thought. 

"  'Yes !  Agnese,  of  Him  it  may  be  truly  said,  that  He 
saw  and  that  He  saw  not.  For  you  and  with  you  He 
was  blind,  indeed,  and  yet,  because  of  you,  and  even 
for  your  very  sake,  He  refused  not  Himself  the  fa- 
culty of  seeing.  Blind  He  was  to  your  sins,  blind  to 
all  consolations  of  heaven  or  of  earth.  Closing  His 
eyes  even  upon  His  divinity,  one  glance  at  which 
would  have  robbed  His  cross  of  its  ignominy — His 
passion  of  its  woe.  But  blind  He  was  not,  to  those 
who  passed  beneath  His  cross,  wagging  their  heads  in 
cold  derision;  and  He  opened  them  wide,  and  fixed 
them  unshrinkingly  on  the  mangled  humanity  in  which 
He  was  atoning  for  the  crimes  of  the  scoffers :  nor  did 
He  refuse  them  to  look  upon  His  mother.  He  was, 
indeed,  a  very  prodigal  of  His  woe;  not  merely  con- 
tent to  drink  up  the  chalice  which  His  Father  gave 
Him,  but  rather  sipping  it,  as  it  were,  drop  by  drop, 
that  He  might  more  fully  taste  and  savour  all  its  bit- 
terness; and  therefore  it  was,  Agnese,  that  He  would 
not  lose  His  sight,  since  by  that  very  sight  He  could 
draw  suffering  to  His  soul.  And  now,  my  child,  you 
need  not  speak,  for  I  know  your  thoughts.  You  will 
gladly  suffer  with  Jesus,  and  as  Jesus  wills.  Bow 
down,  then,  your  heart,  and  bow  down  your  very  soul, 
and  receive  Him  into  your  arms,  and  learn  of  Him, 
who  was  alone  a  victim — but  a  willing  victim-coffered 
solely  because  He  willed  it." 

"Dearest  May,"  added  Agnese,  after  a  little  pause 
of  thoughtful  recollection,  "she  had  read  my  thoughts 


BLIND  AGNESE  161 

aright.  So  I  bowed  myself  down  body  and  soul,  and 
held  out  my  arms,  and  received  the  Lamb-child,  Jesus, 
in  them.  He  did  not  seem  to  stay  there,  but  rather 
to  sink  into  my  very  heart  of  hearts,  and  penetrate  it 
so  in  sweetness  that  I  felt  quite  dissolving  in  love  and 
joy.  Tears  rushed  into  my  eyes;  and,  though  I  could 
not  speak,  it  seemed  as  if  my  spirit  said  to  Mary — 
'Oh !  sweetest  lady,  leave  Him  with  me  thus,  and  never 
again  will  I  ask  to  do  ought  but  suffer.'  And  Mary 
answered,  with  heavenly  gladness  in  her  voice: — 'He 
is  yours,  Agnese ;  only  try  and  will  as  he  wills,  and  be- 
lieve never,  in  joy  or  in  sorrow,  will  He  cease  to  make 
His  dwelling  in  your  heart.'  I  awoke,  dear  May — 
quite  awoke,  when  she  said  these  words ;  for  the  nun 
touched  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  we  left  the  chapel. 
But  always  since  that  day  He  is  ever  in  my  heart ;  and 
though  I  do  not  see  Him,  I  feel  him  there.  And  now, 
if  I  could  see,  I  would  not  see;  and  if  by  a  miracle 
my  eyes  were  to  be  opened  to  the  light,  I  would  close 
them  again,  and  never  open  them,  if  I  could  help  it, 
until  I  was  in  heaven.  For  I  would  not  willingly  look 
upon  thing  or  creature,  however  beautiful  or  however 
blest,  before  Ihad  rejoiced  in  the  vision  of  my  God. 
And  I  shall  see  Him  soon,  dear  May — soon,  although 
not  quite  yet.  But  soon — very  soon — it  will  be  now, 
as  I  think  and  hope." 

"Why,  Agnese,  you  surely  do  not  mean  to  go  to 
heaven,  and  leave  us  all  just  yet?"  said  May,  trying 
to  laugh  through  the  tears  that  were  choking  her. 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  not  live  long,  May.  I  know  well 
I  have  been  dying  ever  since  I  left  Naples;  only, 
at  first,  I  was  dying  slow,  and  now  I  am  dying 


162  BLIND  AGNESE 

fast.  Do  not  cry,  dearest,  dearest  May — do  not  cry 
so  sadly." 

"How  can  I  help  it,  when  I  hear  you  say  such  ter- 
rible things?  So  short  a  time  to  have  had  a  little 
sister,  and  now  to  lose  her.  No,  no,  Agnese!  I  can- 
not spare  you  yet." 

Tears  came  into  Agnese's  eye,  as  she  answered — 

"To  leave  you,  May,  is  almost  my  only  sorrow,  I 
love  so  much  to  feel  that  you  are  near  me.  But 
though  I  leave,  I  do  not  lose  you,  nor  you  lose  me, 
dear  May;  for  then  I  shall  love  you  with  a  double 
love — the  love  of  the  sister  who,  on  earth,  so  relied 
upon  your  care,  and  the  love  of  the  guardian  spirit, 
who  will  watch  over  you  from  heaven.  And,  oh !  my 
sister,  when  I  see  Him — if  I  see  Him — surely  my  first 
thought  will  be  ^of  you — my  first  petition  for  you. 
Never,  believe  me,  never  shall  I  weary  of  kneeling  at 
His  feet,  and  praying  for  your  welfare." 

Agnese  looked  so  beautiful,  as  she  made  this  prom- 
ise, that  May  felt  inspired  with  something  of  the 
same  heavenly  longing  so  visible  on  her  features.  She 
kissed  her  brow,  and  whispered  in  a  tone  which  had 
more  of  exultation  than  of  sadness  in  it — 

"You  shall  go  to  Him  when  he  wills  it,  dear  one; 
only  remember  to  bequeath  to  me  your  sweet  and  lov- 
ing thoughts  of  Him,  that  I  may  also,  for  the  sake  of 
Jesus,  close  my  eyes  to  all  that  is  not  Jesus ;  and  be  to 
Him,  as  you  have  been,  a  very  spouse  in  the  sacra- 
ment of  His  love." 

"Ah!"  said  Agnese,  "long  ago  the  children  used  to 
call  me  His  sposina;  but  I  never  really  was  so,  and 
I  never  really  felt  so  until  the  other  day." 


BLIND  AGNESE  163 

"The  other  day!  What  do  you  mean,  Agnese?" 
replied  May,  struck  by  the  peculiar  expression  of  her 
sister's  countenance. 

"I  was  his  spouse,"  whispered  Agnese,  "on  the  day 
when  he  came  to  me  in  the  sacrament  of  His  love, 
for  then  I  promised  to  be  His  and  His  alone.  And  I 
don't  mean  half  His,  but  wholly  and  entirely  His  own ; 
as  in  life,  so  to  be  faithful  even  unto  death.  Yes, 
May,"  continued  the  blind  child,  making  a  great  and 
Evident  effort  to  speak  her  secret,  "I  promised  Him 
faithfully — oh!  so  faithfully — to  be  His;  not  only 
His,  a  child,  but  His,  a  woman.  I  asked  Him,  indeed, 
to  take  me  away  directly ;  but  if  He  chose  to  leave  me 
here,  I  said  I  would  live  but  for  His  love.  So  you 
see  that  was  really  my  spousal  day;  and  soon  He 
ivill  come  and  take  me  to  Himself,  and  then  I  shall  be 
with  Him  as  His  spouse,  indeed." 

"Agnese !  but  you  should  not  have  done  this  without 
asking." 

"I  did  not  intend  it,  May ;  but  that  instant  it  seemed 
as  if  I  were  so  entirely  His  own  that  it  was  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  to  do;  and  then,"  Agnese 
added,  seeing  her  sister's  grave  and  anxious  looks, 
"it  is  no  great  matter,  for  I  shall  not  live  to  the  trial. 
He  is  coming  to  take  me  away  so  soon." 

"I  know  not  that — I  know  not  that!"  said  May, 
clinging,  as  human  nature  often  does,  to  the  expres- 
sion of  a  hope  which  yet  it  does  not  feel.  "The  doc- 
tors say  there  is  no  disease,  and  where  there  is  no 
disease  surely  it  is  impossible  not  to  hope." 

"Do  not  hope,  my  sister;  the  doctors  do  not  know 
how  entirely  I  have  offered  my  life  to  Him." 


164  BLIND  AGNESE 

"But  He  may  not  accept  the  offering,"  answered 
May;  "or  He  may  receive  it  in  another  sense,  giving 
you  now  to  live,  in  order  that,  at  a  later  period,  you 
may  consecrate  to  Him,  in  very  deed,  what  now  you 
have  only  given  in  desire." 

"No,  May,  do  not  deceive  yourself;  I  feel  that  He 
has  accepted  the  offering,  in  the  sense  and  spirit  in 
which  I  made  it;  the  hand  of  death  is  upon  me,  dear- 
est. It  is  true,  I  have  no  disease,  but " 

And  May  long  remembered  afterwards  how  the 
child  had  unconsciously  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart, 
in  concluding  the  sentence — 

"It  is  as  if  He  Himself  were  stealing  away  my 
life." 

May  made  no  answer;  she  was  weeping  bitterly. 

"May,"  said  Agnese,  after  a  silence  of  some  min- 
utes, "what  are  you  doing?" 

"Making  a  wreath  of  white  roses  for  the  novice 
whose  clothing  takes  place  next  week,  at  the  Convent 
of  the  Perpetual  Adoration." 

"May,  could  you  not  make  another  for  her,  and 
give  me  that  one?" 

"You  shall  have  it,  dearest." 

"And  May,"  continued  Agnese,  feebly,  "I  wish  you 
would  change  my  dress,  and  put  me  on  the  one  I  wore 
when  He  came  to  me  for  the  first  time." 

May  put  aside  the  roses,  which  were  all  besprinkled 
with  her  tears,  and  she  had  soon  wrapt  her  sister 
in  the  spotless  folds  of  a  white  muslin  wrapping- 
dress,  and  parted  her  soft,  shining  hair,  upon  her 
brow,  and  smoothed  the  long  curls  upon  either 
side,  but  when  she  was  about  to  crown  them  with 


BLIND  AGNESE  165 

her  white  roses,  Agnese  put  aside  the  wreath,  and 
said — 

"Not  just  yet,  dearest  May;  wait  until  He  comes  to 
take  me  away,  for  then  I  would  be  dressed  as  a  bride, 
indeed,  and  brides  always  wear  a  wreath  of  flowers, 
Benita  says.  Ah,  here  is  Francesco,"  she  added,  with 
a  happy  smile,  as  her  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of 

the  old  man's  footsteps  on  the  corridor  without. 
******         *         *        * 

The  poor  children  lingering  near  the  Church  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  crowded  round  Agnese,  as  Fran- 
cesco lifted  her  from  the  carriage.  Many  of  them 
had  known,  and  loved,  and  reverenced  her,  even  as  a 
poor  blind  child,  and  now,  in  her  better  fortunes,  it 
was  one  of  Agnese's  sweetest  pleasures  to  repay  their 
former  kindness,  by  a  thousand  little  generosities,  as 
well  as  by  the  tenderest  interest  in  all  that  concerned 
them.  No  wonder,  therefore,  they  now  crowded  round 
her,  saying  to  each  other,  in  their  great  delight  at  her 
re-appearance  among  them — "It  is  blind  Agnese ;  how 
glad  I  am  she  is  not  too  weak  to  come;  and  now  that 
she  is  once  in  the  open  air  again,  our  sposina  will 
grow  as  strong  as  she  was  before  the  foreign  lady 
took  her  to  that  cold  land,  where  the  sun,  she  says, 
never  shines  so  brightly  as  it  shines  on  us." 

"You  must  pray  for  me  very  much  to-night,  dear 
little  ones,"  said  Agnese,  pausing  ere  she  ascended  the 
steps  of  the  church,  in  order  to  distribute  her  presents 
among  them.  "These  are  the  last  gifts  I  shall  ever 
bring  you." 

Francesco  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her 
into  the  church,  for  she  was  too  weak  to  walk  so  far. 


166  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Where  Colomba  died,  there  let  me  pray  for  the 
last  time,"  she  whispered ;  and,  in  compliance  with  the 
wish,  the  kind  old  man  carried  her,  as  nearly  as  he 
could,  to  the  altar  upon  which  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
reposed. 

There  she  knelt  down — she  would  kneel  down,  she 
said,  as  it  was  for  the  last  time.  So  May  knelt  down 
beside  her,  and  put  her  arm  round  her  waist.  She 
had  grown  so  feeble,  that  without  this  assistance  she 
could  not  have  knelt  upright.  The  service  began,  and 
May  felt  Agnese  lean  every  moment  more  heavily 
upon  her,  as  if  every  moment  she  lost  more  and  more 
the  power  of  self-support.  Once  or  twice  she  whis- 
pered— "You  are  weary,  darling,"  but  the  child  did 
not  seem  to  hear  her,  and  May  desisted,  for  she  did 
not  like  to  disturb  her  more  than  was  needful.  "It 
is  for  the  last  time,"  thought  she,  "and  so  it  is  no 
matter."  Something,  indeed,  seemed  to  say  to  her, 
that  there  was  no  hope,  and  that  the  child  was  dying 
fast.  Suddenly,  she  felt  her  sinking  from  her  grasp; 
it  was  at  the  very  instant  when  the  Benediction  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  was  being  given,  and,  with  a  calm 
courage,  that  afterwards  seemed  strange  to  her,  she 
put  both  her  arms  round  the  dying  child,  and  clasped 
her  tightly  to  her  bosom,  until  that  sweet  and  solemn 
blessing  had  been  given.  For  worlds  she  would  not 
have  deprived  Agnese  of  His  benediction  at  such  a 
moment.  When  it  was  over,  she  made  a  sign  to  Fran- 
cesco, who  soon  saw  how  the  matter  stood,  and  car- 
ried Agnese  into  the  open  air. 

"Is  she  dead?"  whispered  May,  turning  in  her 
anguish  to  the  old  man  for  comfort. 


BLIND  AGNESE  167 

"No,"  he  replied,  in  the  same  tone;  "but  I  greatly 
fear  me  she  is  dying." 

"What  shall  I  do?  the  movement  of  the  carriage 
will  kill  her  outright.  Look  up,  my  own  darling — 
for  God's  sake,  look  up,"  said  May,  sitting  down  upon 
the  church  steps,  and  receiving  her  dying  sister  from 
Francesco's  arms. 

"If  the  signorina  does  not  mind,"  said  Francesco, 
"there  is  a  cottage  close  at  hand,  where  I  live;  I 
could  easily  carry  her  so  far.  It  is  but  a  poor  place, 
but  I  could  easily  carry  her  so  far." 

"Oh,  never  mind  about  that,"  said  May,  impatiently ; 
"let  us  carry  her  there  at  once,  and  then  I  will  go  and 
fetch  my  grandmother." 

Agnese  had  by  this  time  opened  her  eyes,  and  a 
bright  smile  passed  over  her  face,  as  she  listened  to 
this  little  conversation. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  whispered;  "the  poorer  the  better. 
For  He  was  poor,  and  had  no  place  whereon  to  lay 
His  head."  She  looked  yet  more  pleased,  when  they 
carried  her  into  the  little  room,  and  she  heard  Fran- 
cesco saying  to  her  sister: — 

"The  signorina  must  excuse  my  poverty;  yonder 
heap  of  Indian  straw  is  all  the  bed  I  have  to  offer  to 
her  sister." 

May,  however,  could  not  resist  a  sigh,  while  she 
smoothed  down  the  poor  couch,  and  covered  it  over  as 
well  as  she  could  with  a  velvet  mantle,  which  Fran- 
cesco brought  up  from  the  carriage.  Upon  this  they 
laid  Agnese ;  but  the  child  looked  distressed,  and  tears 
rushed  into  her  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  my  own  darling?"  asked  May,  her 


i68  BLIND  AGNESE 

quick  eye  detecting  in  an  instant  the  emotion  of  her 
sister. 

"He  died  upon  a  cross ;  and  would  you  have  me  go 
to  Him  on  velvet?"  whispered  the  child;  for  she  had 
detected  the  soft  nature  of  the  material  upon  which 
she  was  lying  in  an  instant. 

Tp  many  this  might  have  been  childlike,  and  of 
little  meaning,  but  happily  May  could  comprehend 
the  feeling  which  made  this  child,  who  in  her  life 
had  been  so  devoted  to  her  Divine  Lord,  anxious  to 
resemble  Him  even  in  His  death.  She  made  a  sign, 
therefore,  to  Francesco,  and  while  he  once  more  raised 
Agnese,  she  gently  removed  the  velvet  mantle,  so  little 
in  unison  with  the  poor  bed  it  covered.  The  child 
looked  pleased  at  this  new  arrangement;  but  just  as 
he  laid  her  down  again  some  other  thought  appeared 
to  strike  her,  and  she  asked  in  which  direction  stood 
the  church. 

"It  is  just  behind,"  Francesco  answered,  wonder- 
ing a  little  at  the  question. 

"Dearest  May,"  she  said,  imploringly,  "could  you 
not  put  me  the  other  way,  with  my  face  towards  the 
church  ?" 

"For  what  purpose,  dear  one?  It  will  only  fatigue 
you,  and,  God  knows,  you  are  ill  and  weak  enough 
already!" 

"To  what  purpose!  O  May,  how  can  you  ask? 
That  I  may  turn  my  sightless  eyes  towards  Him, 
and  feel  that  His  are  bent  lovingly  upon  me. 
Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  own  May,"  she  added, 
as  her  sister  silently  re-arranged  her  pillow  in 
the  direction  in  which  she  wished  it  to  be  placed. 


BLIND  AGNESE  169 

*Now,  indeed,  I  shall  feel  that  I  am  'dying  at  His 
feet." 

"Will  you  stay  and  watch  her?"  said  May,  with 
difficulty  suppressing  her  heavy  sobs.  "I  must  go  and 
break  this  news  to  her  grandmother.  I  dare  not  trust 
it  to  the  servants  to  acquaint  her  with  such  sorrow." 

Francesco  willingly  undertook  the  office,  and  May 
drove  back  rapidly  to  Naples.  Lady  Oranmore  lis- 
tened to  her  sad  story ;  but  she  could  not  bring  herself 
to  believe  that  all  would,  indeed,  be  so  soon  over,  as 
was  apprehended  by  May,  and  the  latter  had  not  the 
heart  to  argue  the  matter  with  her.  "She  will  know 
it  soon  enough,"  thought  she;  and  while  waiting  the 
arrival  of  the  physicians,  who  had  been  summoned  to 
attend,  she  left  her  grandmother,  and  went  and  sat 
down  sorrowfully  in  that  room  which  Agnese  had  so 
lately  quitted,  and  which  she  felt  the  child  would 
never  again  enter,  excepting  as  a  corpse.  Here  the 
half-finished  wreath  of  roses  caught  her  eye,  and,  re- 
membering the  request  of  Agnese,  she  took  it  up,  and, 
though  her  tears  fell  fast  all  the  while  among  its 
flowers,  resolutely  set  to  work,  and  succeeded  in  com- 
pleting it  before  summoned  to  attend  Lady  Oranmore 
and  the  physicians  to  the  cottage  of  Francesco.  They 
found  the  child  evidently  sinking  fast,  and  one  glance 
at  her  was  sufficient  for  the  medical  men,  who  unani- 
mously declared  that  she  had  not  an  hour  to  live. 
This  opinion  was  given  to  Lady  Oranmore  in  so  loud 
a  whisper,  that  May  was  certain  the  child  must  have 
heard  it,  and,  fearing  the  effect  of  so  sudden  an  an- 
nouncement upon  her,  she  turned  towards  her  sister. 
Agnese  was  smiling  brightly,  and  May  felt  she  had 


170  BLIND  AGNESE 

both  heard  the  fiat,  and  that  the  consequences  were 
somewhat  different  from  any  which  might  have  been 
expected  in  a  similar  case.  She  knelt  down  and 
kissed  her  forehead,  saying,  although  it  seemed  so 
needless  to  ask  the  question: — 

"You  are  happy,  dear  one?" 

"Yes,  dear  May,"  she  whispered,  in  return;  "but  it 
was  not  for  that  I  smiled." 

"For  what  was  it  then,  Agnese?" 

"I  was  but  smiling  to  think  how  they  are  mistaken, 
May." 

"Do  you,  then,  think  you  are  not  dying  ?"  cried  May, 
eagerly — so  willing  was  she  to  take  hope,  even  from 
the  thoughts  of  the  poor  child  about  herself. 

"I  am  dying,  May,  but  not  so  fast  as  they  imagine. 
To-morrow  will  be  the  Feast  of  the  Sacred  Heart, 
and  I  shall  die  then,  and  not  before." 

May  was  silent ;  she  felt  disappointed,  though  quite 
conscious  how  idle  it  would  have  been  to  have  founded 
any  expectations  upon  the  fancies  of  a  dying  child. 
But  she  checked  her  rising  sobs,  for  Agnese  was  speak- 
ing once  again. 

"May,  do  you  remember  what  you  once  read  me 
about  St.  Elizabeth?" 

"What,  dearest?"  replied  May,  vaguely — unable  al 
the  moment  to  think  of  anything  but  Agnese  her- 
self. 

"Why,  about  all  the  little  singing  birds,  that  sang 
so  sweetly,  so  sweetly  round  her  pillow,  when  she  was 
dying." 

"I  remember  now,"  said  May. 

"I  do  not  want  them,"  replied  Agnese,  with  a  pecu 


BLIND  AGNESE  171 

liar  expression  in  her  voice.  "The  dove  is  the  only 
bird  I  would  care  to  have." 

"You  will  soon  have  your  wish,"  said  May,  as  she 
now  comprehended  what  Agnese  wanted — "Padre 
Giovanni  is  at  the  door;  Francesco  went  for  him  as 
soon  as  I  returned." 

It  needed  no  long  time  to  arrange  the  conscientious 
affairs  of  the  pure-hearted  child;  and  when  the  as- 
sistants were  once  more  admitted  into  the  chamber, 
the  Padre  told  May  to  prepare,  as  well  as  she  could,  a 
temporary  altar  for  the  reception  of  the  Blessed 
Sacrament,  which  he  was  about  to  bring  from  the 
church,  and  administer  as  viaticum  to  her  sister. 
Aided  by  Francesco,  May  had  soon  accomplished  this 
task,  lighted  a  couple  of  wax  candles,  and  made  what 
other  preparations  shortness  of  time  and  the  poverty 
of  the  place  would  admit  of.  Afterwards,  she  rear- 
ranged the  folds  of  Agnese's  spotless  dress,  smoothed 
once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  the  shining  curls 
that  she  loved  so  well,  laid  (and  this  while  the  child 
did  not  withdraw  it)  the  wreath  of  white  roses  upon 
them,  and  then  took  her  usual  place  at  the  pillow  of 
the  invalid.  Benita  also  knelt  down  by  her  nurseling ; 
but  Lady  Oranmore  could  not  trust  herself  so  near; 
so  she  went  and  sat  at  the  open  window.  Agnese 
was  now  lying  as  one  in  a  deep  sleep,  her  eyes  closed, 
and  her  hands  folded  on  her  bosom;  but  May  knew 
well  that  this  stillness,  which  seemed  like  slumber, 
was  in  truth  but  the  very  depth  and  quiet  of  her 
prayer ;  so  she  also  prayed  beside  her.  For  some  time 
the  room  was  wrapped  in  silence,  only  broken  by  the 
heavy  sobs  of  Lady  Oranmore,  and  even  these  be- 


i;2  BLIND  AGNESE 

came  fewer  and  fainter  by  degrees — for  the  calmness 
of  those  around  Agnese  seemed  to  rebuke  her  less  un- 
complaining sorrow — something,  too,  there  was  in  the 
look  and  temperature  of  the  evening,  which  carried 
back  her  recollections  to  that  of  the  preceding  twelve- 
month, soothing  even  while  it  deepened  her  sadness. 

Just  such  a  night  as  the  one  on  which  she  had  first 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Agnese  was  this  on  which 
she  was  now  to  take  leave  of  her  forever:  and  the 
same  Jesus,  whom  then  the  child  had  followed  so 
devoutly,  was  now  coming  Himself  to  visit  her  in 
turn.  Lady  Oranmore  dwelt  upon  this  memory  until 
it  almost  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  visit  of  her  Divine 
Lord,  which,  to  any  other,  would  have  been  an  act  of 
incomprehensible  charity,  was  more  like  a  deed  of  jus- 
tice to  this  poor  child,  who  so  often  in  her  short  life- 
time had  followed  in  His  footsteps.  Just  as  this 
thought  crossed  her  mind  the  Hymn  of  the  Blessed 
Sacrament  rose  up  through  the  open  window,  falling, 
in  the  midst  of  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  hour,  upon 
the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  it,  like  a  strain  from 
heaven;  an  instant  afterwards,  a  sweet,  low  voice  had 
joined  itself  to  the  melody.  It  was  not  in  the  streets 
below,  and  May  instinctively  turned  towards  Agnese 
— it  was,  as  she  had  suspected,  the  child  was  singing, 
in  an  undertone,  probably  quite  unconsciously  to  her- 
self. May  was  about  to  check  her,  fearing  the  exer- 
tion might  hasten  death ;  but  she  thought  of  the  sing- 
ing birds  of  St.  Elizabeth,  and  refrained.  Francesco 
now  opened  the  door  and  Agnese  ceased  to  sing. 
"Hush,"  she  whispered,  "He  is  coming."  May  thought 
she  looked  as  if  she  were  already  with  Him  in  heaven. 


BLIND  AGNESE  173 

The  Blessed  Sacrament  was  placed  on  the  temporary 
altar,  prepared  by  May;  Lady  Oranmore  fell  on  her 
knees,  and  her  agitation  became  too  great  to  admit  of 
her  attending  very  closely  to  the  ceremonies  which  fol- 
lowed. But  all  was  at  length  concluded;  and  for  a 
long  time  after  Agnese  had  received  her  Divine  Lord 
in  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  unbroken  silence  reigned 
in  the  apartment.  At  last  the  clock  struck  eleven; 
May  started,  she  remembered  her  sister's  words,  and 
she  felt  Agnese  press  the  hand  she  held  in  hers. 

The  half  hour  struck,  and  then  the  quarter.  "It  is 
time  now,"  Agnese  murmured;  "I  am  going,  May. 
Let  me  bid  my  grandmother  good-bye."  In  obedience 
to  this  wish,  May  led  her  grandmother  to  the  bed. 
Agnese  first  embraced  the  sobbing  Benita,  then,  as 
Lady  Oranmore  folded  her  to  her  heart,  she  seemed 
to  collect  all  her  remaining  strength,  to  say,  as  earn- 
estly as  she  could — "Grandmother !  If  you  would  die 
happy,  you  must  die  in  the  church  which  alone  can 
give  you  Jesus  for  the  comfort  of  that  hour."  Lady 
Oranmore  turned  away  in  speechless  sorrow,  and  May 
bent  in  her  turn  over  the  dying  child.  "I  love  you  best 
of  all,"  Agnese  whispered,  "and  so  I  say  to  you— 
Love  Him,  and  Him  alone,  and  never  creatures  ex- 
cepting for  His  sake." 

"Never!"  answered  May  firmly,  after  a  moment's 
thought;  and  she  kept  her  word. 

"May,"  continued  the  child,  in  an  almost  inarticu- 
late whisper,  "had  I  lived,  I  should  have  hoped  to 
serve  Him  in  the  perpetual  adoration."* 

*  The  Convent  of  the  Perpetual  Adoration.  This  devotion 
was  intended  for  the  express  purpose  of  repairing  the  neg- 


174  BLIND  AGNESE 

"Pray,  dear  one,  that  I  may  be  an  adorer  in  your 
place." 

A  bright  smile  passed  over  the  features  of  Agnese, 
and  for  some  time  she  lay  quite  still;  but  again  some 
disquieting  thought  cast  its  shadow  over  the  serene 
beauty  of  her  brow,  and  she  tried  to  lift  her  hand  to- 
wards her  head. 

"What  is  it,  dearest?"  May  whispered  through  her 
tears. 

"His  crown  was  of  thorns,  and  shall  I  die  wreathed 
in  flowers!"  she  said  in  a  voice  now  barely  audible. 

"Content  you,  dear  one.  There  are  thorns  even 
among  roses." 

Agnese  thanked  her  by  a  smile — such  a  smile  as  a 
seraph  might  have  brought  from  heaven,  and  then 
she  unfolded  her  arms  from  her  bosom,  and  stretched 
them  out  until  she  lay  like  one  extended  on  a  cross. 
Her  sister  thought  at  first  it  was  only  a  convulsive 
movement,  and  tried  to  refold  the  arms :  but  for  once 
the  gentle  child  resisted,  and  May  then  knew  why  she 
had  altered  her  position,  for  Agnese  whispered,  "It 
was  so  He  died !"  and  in  that  attitude,  which  love  alone 
could  have  dictated  to  her  heart,  she  waited  for  His 
hour.*  How  May  dreaded  the  next  tolling  of  the  clock, 

lect,  incredulity,  and  insult  continually  offered  our  Divine 
Saviour  in  His  Eucharistic  presence;  and  in  those  convents 
where  it  is  established  the  nuns  kneel  in  rotation,  two  and 
two,  hour  after  hour,  before  the  altar,  thus  realizing  (as 
much  as  creatures  may)  our  dream  of  heaven,  and  emulating 
in  their  ceaseless  prayer  those  mysterious  creatures,  who 
rest  "not  night  or  day,"  saying,  "Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  Lord 
God  Almighty,  who  was,  and  who  is,  and  who  is  to  come." 
*  A  fact. 


BLIND  AGNESE  175 

something  in  her  own  heart  seeming  to  say  it  would  in- 
deed be  the  signal  for  the  coming  of  the  Bridegroom. 
It  knelled  at  last  upon  her  reluctant  ear.  The  Feast  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  was  come  indeed ;  but  for  yet  a  mo- 
ment longer  Agnese  lay  quite  still,  her  pale  face  grow- 
ing brighter  and  brighter  in  her  celestial  joy,  until  it 
almost  seemed  as  if  a  visible  light  were  shedding 
radiance  on  her  brow.  Suddenly  she  started  up — 
"Francesco !"  she  cried  in  a  clear,  low  voice,  "The 
Dove!"  Even  as  she  spoke,  she  extended  wide  her 
arms,  and  opened  her  eyes ;  and,  oh !  the  light,  the  in- 
telligence, the  love,  that  filled  those  once  sightless  orbs, 
as  she  fixed  them  (so  it  seemed  to  the  beholders)  on 
some  object  directly  above  her.  But  whether  she  saw, 
or  what  she  saw  is  a  secret  known  only  to  herself  and 
to  her  God;  for  while  yet  in  that  attitude  of  rapt  de- 
votion, without  a  word,  without  a  sigh,  she  gave  back 
her  pure  spirit  to  Him  who  had  been  the  object  of  its 
ceaseless  desires,  and  her  lifeless  form  sank  down 
upon  the  pillow,  with  arms  still  outstretched  to  the 
semblance  of  that  cross,  upon  which  He  had  died  for 
the  love  of  her.  The  soul  of  Agnese  was  with  her 
God,  and  she  was  dead!" 


THE   END 


^SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBflARY  FAdUTY 


A     000127926     4 


